


The Cat Came Back

by WhenBachDropsTheBeat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 14:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16369202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenBachDropsTheBeat/pseuds/WhenBachDropsTheBeat
Summary: Oh-Oh. It’s Porthos’ birthday, and Aramis has ruined it. For everyone!Porthos is upset. Alley cats are insulted. Archangels are maligned.Rum is elevated to new heights in Porthos’ world and condemned to new depths in Aramis’ world.Treville just doesn’t understand how things can go so tipsy-turvy in just a few hours.And, by the by, how is it that Athos is the sober one?*With 'hats off' to a couple of prize-writers that I know are owned and trained by cats ;-)





	1. You Say It's Your Birthday!

~ Chapter One: You Say It's Your Birthday! ~

d’Artagnan dared not look toward the door when he heard familiar footfalls and the faint back-and-forth frenzy of a tense conversation between two persons making their way down the interior hall of the musketeer garrison toward Porthos’ spartan two-room quarters.

The young musketeer had taken a chance to glance over his handful of confounding cards at the big man sitting across the table from him as soon as he had heard the noise outside the room. The look on the dark handsome face of his host - tonight, his self-appointed master of gambling tips and tricks - warned him in advance of the arrival of the visitors.He saw Porthos’ jaw clench and the man’s night-black eyes squint ever so slightly in obvious displeasure.

Porthos had been on a tear all night. It was his birthday, and it had all gone miserably wrong. Aramis, then Athos - each had abandoned their big musketeer brother in arms, leaving d’Artagnan, the youngest and newest of their brotherhood, to the task of keeping the man begrudgingly entertained on a ruined evening.

d’Artagnan was certain that keeping company with a wounded bear would have been more pleasant.

Moderately safer, for sure.

d’Artagnan’s short time in the midst of the fabled three musketeers of Captain Jean Treville’s company had kept him on his toes. The lessons of weaponry and battle readiness had been dreadfully simple compared to getting schooled in the complexities of each of these three men and their relationships to each other within their exclusive circle. It was in the interest of keeping his own spot within that circle that he kept his head down at this moment and pretended to study the cursed handful of cards that Porthos had dealt to him over a dozen times this damned evening.

He heard Porthos huff sharply as the voices grew nearer. His own leg began bouncing nervously in anticipation. 

Athos and Aramis.

Each of them had earned Porthos' special dissatisfaction tonight, but Aramis' slight had seemed particularly painful for the big man.

d’Artagnan had had high expectations of a ramped-up level of harrowing horseplay at a number of the local pubs. He had heard tale after legendary tale of past celebratory high-jinks of these three - Porthos and Aramis, in particular - from other musketeers, so he had set his hopes high for the evening as he and Athos waited at the Ruddy Duck Pub for the other two brothers to arrive.

The Ruddy Duck’s owner, already aware of the import - and implications - of Porthos’ Big Day, had nailed down every piece of inventory he held dear and continued to be frantically busy removing as many sharp, explosive or fragile objects as he was able when Porthos had suddenly loomed like a storm in the pub doorway.

Without Aramis.

The low-level hum of the pub’s crowd, which had already grown to include a large number of soldiers from Treville’s company, had dissolved to a dead silence. Porthos' anger seemed so transforming that by the time he loomed over their table, d'Artagnan believed the man to be twice his normal height and girth.

Frowning, Athos had begun to quietly inquire, “Where is - ?”

d’Artagnan remembered jumping slightly in his seat when Porthos had shouted, “He ain’t comin’! Appears he’s got better things to do! Saw him dressed in lace and velvets and perfumed like a goddamned - ”

“You saw him?” Athos had risen to his feet, looking oddly alarmed. d’Artagnan had been intrigued by the the older musketeer’s deepening frown and seeming indifference to Porthos’ bluster over a spurned birthday meet-up with a beloved brother.

“I did!” Porthos had bellowed, throwing an arm out angrily toward the door as if the musketeer in question was just on the other side of it.

“Where?”

“His place! Gettin’ his pretty ass pulled into some fancy carriage by some woman. I was jus’ walkin’ up to get him when - ”

“Woman? Did you see who it was?” Athos’ voice had become more intense, like an interrogator, and the few questions he had asked were rapid-fire.

“No! How in the hell was I gonna see who it was when he’s off like goddamned Prince Charming in a cloud of fairy dust an’ - ?” Porthos had been angry enough on his own behalf to be oblivious as Athos hastily reached for his hat and weapons. The older man was gone from the pub before the offended birthday boy could finish his furious complaints.

Porthos had watched the quickly retreating figure of his beloved older brother in undisguised shock. “It’s my birthday!” He had whined sorrowfully to himself when Athos disappeared from the once-noisy pub. He had looked around, his glowering gaze falling briefly on the innkeeper who stood nearby.

The man appeared to have frozen in horror. Four tankards of ale - readied for delivery to their table - were dripping in his trembling hands. He had never been presented with this problem before. Sure, he knew to secure tables and remove valuable bits of inventory when this band of musketeers were in his place of business, but how did one deal with the monumental problem of the biggest musketeer’s horrifying disappointment and embarrassment on the occasion of a ruined birthday? Would there be blood? He had not prepared for this.

Much to the visible relief of the pub owner, however, the evening revelry had been ended by its celebrant before it had begun.

Amid the groans and cajoling from the other soldiers gathered for Porthos’ celebration, the big musketeer had simply declared the evening a bust and had left the pub, pulling d’Artagnan in his wake. The ‘fresh’ opening in his busy social calendar, he had declared to the junior musketeer, was a good time to teach the boy how to handle himself at a card table in the manner of a winner for a change.

Not daring to protest, d’Artagnan spent the entire dismal trek back to the garrison rueing the day he had bitterly complained about his steady losses at the hands of an assortment of dastardly and villainous card players in the months since he arrived in Paris. Porthos, he recalled , had been horrified when he bemoaned the fact that he had probably lost enough money by now to have bought himself a proper commissioned entry into the King’s Musketeers.

The big man had vowed at the time to teach him “proper ‘card-sharpin’!”

The time had apparently arrived. It would be a proper distraction.

The youngest musketeer wasn’t sure the very night that Porthos apparently had been spurned by a beloved brother or two on the occasion of his birthday would be the most opportune time for an educational experience with his visibly annoyed big brother. He agreed, however, to follow along to the set of rooms Porthos held at the musketeer garrison in the cause of brotherly support.

Now, with the approach of the two miscreant brothers to his door, Porthos’ elegant dark coloring seemed to shade even darker and all the emotions of the spoiled evening threatened to surface.

d’Artagnan’s leg anxiously bounced a bit faster, but his eyes never strayed from his handful of cards, even as the entry door to the garrison rooms of Porthos du Vallon swung open.


	2. Alley Cat

“Ya dare t’ drag a wet alley cat into my quarters?”

The snarling insult in Porthos’ ill-tempered greeting of the two uninvited guests in his doorway caused d’Artagnan to suck in an involuntary breath. Did he dare to look over at the new arrivals? Porthos had not looked up from their so-called 'instructive' card game when he had growled his un-welcoming welcome. It was a clear sign that the musketeer recruit had better follow suit, so he struggled to appear as if he were concentrating on his cards.

Porthos’ remark riveted Aramis to a complete stop at the entrance, Athos bumping unceremoniously into his backside.

“Who are you calling an alley cat?”

The scene had become far too delicious to ignore merely because of a fear of annoying the glowering big man across the table from him! d’Artagnan carefully slid his eyes sideways to the entry way. There stood the two missing rogues who had most certainly damned Porthos’ evening - Athos, looking remarkable composed as always, and Aramis looking... not composed by any standard of civil measurement.

Unfortunately, Porthos’ unkind insult ‘ _wet alley cat_ ’ seemed to be a devastatingly appropriate metaphor for the man's appearance.

Athos coughed lightly into the leaden silence that had settled into the room, as if offering a polite, discreet warning to his disheveled companion. “I warned you he would be in a bad temper.” 

To Porthos, he gave a mild rebuke, “Mon cher! Where is the deep well of tender mercies from which I have so frequently observed you to have drawn?”

Porthos wrinkled his nose in annoyance at Athos’ eloquently convoluted and deliberately barbed remark. “Don’t confuse me with _others_ in this circle, and, as long as I’m on it: don’t confuse me - Period.” He lifted his bearded chin in the direction of the damp and disheveled musketeer, still standing in the open doorway. “Looks as if _that_ one has been dropped into someone’s well already. Saves me a chore, I reckon.”

“Ah! Not a well, but a tub!” Athos spoke over Aramis’ shoulder. He was still standing fast in the hallway, but seemed content for the moment to bandy back even-tempered comments while his companion -cemented to a standstill and stunned into silence by his big brother’s sharp comments - blocked him at the doorway. 

“Much to Serge’s displeasure at this hour, I can tell you.“Athos was patting Aramis’ shoulder lightly with what seemed a gesture of reassurance as he continued to chatter on with an amiability that was not common to the Comte de la Fère.

Upsetting Serge? Late night bathing? This was a clear contravention of garrison order as d’Artagnan had come to understand it. Had Aramis really dared to upset Serge? The youngest musketeer hazarded another look away from his cards to take a longer study of the man stopped on the doorstep. The finery that Aramis had been rumored to have worn this evening were now wadded sloppily in his arms. It was clear he had just gotten out of one of the baths the garrison caretaker Serge always had available for Captain Treville’s large company of kingsmen. Odd that - it was well past the time for the garrison kitchen to have been closed, dining hall cleaned, the bath waters emptied and the bath quarters closed down so the old caretaker could toddle off to his hard-earned nightly rest.

If Aramis had upset that routine, he will have made no friends among Treville’s musketeers who would have to bear the brunt of Serge’s disrupted rest on the morrow. Burnt bread. Cold gruel. Thinner rations of meat. And very likely all bath water would be much cooler - and shallower - for the foreseeable future.

Serge’s displeasure was much feared among the company of soldiers.

Not, apparently, by Aramis, though. d’Artagnan had to admit he was in awe of the fact that the man was able to commandeer a functional bath from the old man at this late hour.

Amaris’ usually meticulous appearance had undergone a radical transformation. His famous mane of dark locks coiled wildly around his face. His slender frame was nearly lost in a bulky, dingy shirt that was frayed at the edges and well-worn at the seams. It must have come from Serge himself, d’Artagnan surmised, because despite Aramis’ elegant height, the shirt hung so loosely that it fell awkwardly, well below his knees.

The soldier’s skin still shone as wetly as his hair did from the bath. There must have been very little allowance of time for toweling dry. Serge had probably ejected him with a fair amount speed as well as force.

Aramis’ unfortunate bedraggled appearance, as well as his poorly timed arrival under these gloomy circumstances, might very well have earned him the epithet that Porthos had bestowed so ungraciously upon him.

“Be pleasant, Porthos. You may have already surmised, from the look of him, our brother has seemed to have endured many trials this evening. Not the least of which - minutes ago - being able to pull himself out of the last of the evening’s bath waters mere moments before Serge himself would have drowned him in it.”

“Busy boy,” Porthos huffed, sending a scorching glance at Aramis again. “Seems ya’ve been makin’ everyone’s evenin’ memorable around here, monsieur alley cat.”

d’Artagnan’s eyebrows lifted comically high with surprise that his host had dared to fire the damning epithet again at the highly skilled marksman. The musketeer recruit had seen Aramis’ lightning reflexes and deadly accurate targeting skills under other circumstances. Should he be glad for Porthos’ sake that the man did not appear to be carrying any weapons?

Porthos did not look as if he cared. He snapped a card to the table and tapped it smartly, returning d’Artagnan’s wandering attention to the lay of the cards between them.

“Did you call me ‘alley cat’? _Again_?”

Porthos ignored the distressed musketeer, so Aramis turned his eyes on the object of Porthos presumed focus: d’Artagnan. “Did he call just me an ‘alley cat’? For the second damned time?” 

The junior musketeer froze, sensing that it wasn’t an answer from him that Aramis really expected. The question was meant to to engage their biggest brother in a manner much like a match might engage dry kindling.

“You called me an alley cat.” Aramis loaded much more indignation into the manner of his declaration and much more volume to his voice this time.

“By the look o’ ya, it’s a hard point t’ argue against, ain’t it?” huffed Porthos, returning his attention to his card game without making eye contact. “Must o’ been fun - cavortin’ with your posh mistress on the occasion of MY birthday. Too bad ya couldn’t see yer way clear t’ let the rest of us know yer plans as we all thought the plans _we_ had set up _weeks_ ago were still supposed to be in place.”

If Aramis had had a response at the ready, it appeared to have been stolen from him. The handsome soldier looked aghast at the mention of Porthos’ birthday.

“Ya do have one credit coming' to ya for the evening', by the way. Y’ve earned the sincere gratitude o’ that crapulous ol’ reprobate what owns The Ruddy Duck, so there’s that. He seems to think yer absence saved him some clean-up. What’s yer excuse for keepin’ ol’ Serge from his bed t’ wait on ya t’night? What God-fearin’, right-livin’ Christian needs a bath at this hour?”

Porthos impatiently tapped the table to return d’Artagnan’s attention to same.

“Birthday!” Aramis breathed out a strangled whisper, as if he had taken a hit to the gut. He looked over his shoulder at Athos, pale-faced. “My God, I... You didn’t say anything to me about - ”

Athos replied smoothly before he could finish his sentence, “You and I had other issues to contend with this evening, did we not?”

Aramis looked genuinely stricken. He turned back to Porthos. “Please accept my apology. Can you accept my wishes for a happy birthday...”

“Apology NOT accepted. Wishes NOT accepted. Birthday, NOT happy.” Porthos was slapping down card after card before d’Artagnan with such force as he growled out his response that the young man trembled, wondering over who and about what Porthos had been reacting to in that moment. “Alley cats gotta go carrousin' after all, don’t they?”

When Aramis did not rise to Porthos’ continuing insult, nor did he move, Athos took the opportunity to nudge past him into the room. He busied himself dropping the bundled burden he had been carrying as close as possible to the warmth of the fireplace and as far as possible from the reach of the scowling Porthos. The bundle held wet silken stockings, matching garters that glistened with tiny bits of gold-work, and a marvelous pair of sadly soiled shoes with ebony heels of a fashionable height.

Athos would have been no stranger to such finery, but d’Artagnan had a fair suspicion that the items that the older man was carefully laying out to dry did not belong to him.

Porthos arched one brow . “Now y’re acting as his manservant, too? It’s not enough that he has Serge waitin’ on him, keepin’ his bath at the ready tonight?”

Athos sighed. He knew Porthos didn’t expect a response. He was reveling in his provocative remarks, squarely aimed at Aramis.

The big man had already struck his target successfully. Aramis’ face colored progressively darker as he went from chagrin to slow-burning fury, still fixated on Porthos’ annoying ’alley cat’ remarks.

Athos responded, even though the remark directed at him was not, in fact, _for_ him.“The bath was a necessity, Porthos. So much the better to scrub the blood from one’s person.”

Acting as if he had just noticed the newest member of their circle of brothers, Athos nodded an acknowledgment and silent greeting in d’Artagnan’s direction.

With a quick glance at Porthos to see whether he was temporarily free of the man’s attentions, the young man dared to look away from his card game, keen to return the greeting. He had been eyeing the two surprise visitors and looked as if he were about to burst with questions, so peculiar was the scene at Porthos’ open door.

“Blood, eh? He’s still standin’, so I’m guessin’ it wasn’t his.” Porthos said in a callous drawl meant to broadcast his continued annoyance. He slapped a card to the table, snapping d’Artagnan’s drifting attention back to the game again and away from the damp, dejected-looking spectacle still lingering at the entrance.

Aramis remained silent throughout, offering no explanation for his disheveled appearance nor further clarification of Athos’ cryptic comment, much to the young recruit’s disappointment.

”That musta been quite the lively salon you attended with yer mysterious lady friend to have ended in both blood AND a bath, brother!” Porthos chortled as an insinuating aside to Aramis while fixing his young opponent with a raptor-like stare over his handful of remaining cards.

d’Artagnan squirmed under the big musketeer’s fierce gaze and once again redoubled his efforts to study the game in front of him, despite desperately wanting to learn more about the curious misadventures of Aramis. Porthos had been in a foul mood all evening, however, so the young man thought the better of indulging his curiosity and reluctantly resigned himself to learning the card game.

He timidly offered up one card, but snapped it back as soon as he heard a deep, disapproving rumble from the big man across the table from him. Perplexed, he returned his concentration to his hand.

Satisfied that his young protege was caught up in the card gaming task once again, the dark musketeer lifted his eyes to the brother still poised on the threshold.

“When I saw ya gettin’ into that carriage tonight, ya were dressed for court, not combat. Misjudged yer choice of preferred company tonight, didja, monsieur?”

That remark made Aramis actually pale briefly, as if he had taken a serious wounding. He recovered quickly enough, though, and lifted his classically chiseled jaw and meticulously groomed chin without uttering a response. Porthos knew he had successfully struck another direct hit on the man’s considerable pride.

He returned to the card game abruptly when he realized their youngest comrade’s attention had roamed again to the doorway drama. He barked a deep cough, startling d’Artagnan back to the matter before him. 

Studying his young guest’s perplexed face as the boy agonized over his need to make a play that might finally impress his teacher with his cleverness, Porthos sighed inwardly.

d'Artagnan had more tells than a brothel full of virgins.

The fresh distraction at the door meant that the evening’s vital training session for their newest musketeer would be a complete waste of time.

Athos had taken up an inquisitive position just behind d’Artagnan by now. Leaning forward to examine the play of the cards in hand and on the table, he was noisily clucking his tongue in warning to their youngest friend. Porthos ground his teeth and frowned at the older man.

Already irritated by the all the disruptions, Porthos was not pleased when he gradually became aware of a draft of cold air settling around him. He sourly turned his attention back to the irritant at the open doorway.

“Well? In or out, monsieur alley cat!” he snapped. “I’m not goin’ t’ heat all o' Paris ‘cause ya don’t know how t’ close a door!”

It was if the remark was all that was needed to re-animate Aramis. He came alive with a spiteful backward kick to the door behind him. The force rattled the door in its hinges when it slammed shut. Athos raised his eyebrows at Porthos as Aramis strode past all of them into the smaller room that held Porthos’s large bed.

“Smoothly done, brother.” Athos remarked with sarcasm and a reprimanding shake of his head.

He straightened and tapped d’Artagnan gently on his shoulder. “Come, boy, it’s time to say ‘good night’ to this pleasant gathering. Incidentally, by the lay of the cards, I can tell you that Porthos had cheated you out of all your imaginary coin two moves ago. Thank your God you weren’t playing for real money, and then beg Porthos to instruct you on his mysterious methods at a future, less threatening, date.”

“Did you say ‘cheated’?” Porthos rasped, swinging his attention from the bedroom into which his uninvited guest had disappeared to his older brother in arms.

“You may have misheard me, my beloved scoundrel. I quite clearly said ‘masterfully outmaneuvered’,” Athos responded brightly.

As d’Artagnan was still staring, open-mouthed and puzzled, at his cards, Athos nodded toward the room into which Aramis had fled. “Take it easy on him, Porthos. He has had very little to say about his misadventure this evening. It ended in the deaths of two noblemen, and it almost cost Aramis his own life. Captain Treville will be debriefing him first thing tomorrow morning, so I will be here to collect him at - ”

“Two noblemen dead! Debriefing! What the hell…?” Porthos sputtered, cutting Athos short. He spun forward in his chair and leaned toward his bedroom to call after Aramis. “I thought ya were attendin’ one o' yer frilly tea-n-biscuits salons! Who was the guest of honor - Tomas de Torquemada?” 

The door to Porthos’ bedroom wasn’t as sturdily built as his front door, yet it still managed to make such a thunderous boom when it was violently swung shut that they all jumped in near unison.

Porthos shot to his feet and shouted another taunt at the closed door. “NOT discussin’ poetry, planets or patronesses, then?”

No answer.

In the silence that followed, as Porthos paced like an angry bear in front of his own bedroom door, d’Artagnan whispered in innocent confusion to Athos, “Who is Tomas de Tor... de Tork...?

“Torquemada.” Athos supplied the name with an indulgent smile. “A notable demon of last century’s infamous Spanish Inquisition. Very likely a poor dinner conversationalist for a myriad of reasons - not the least of which is he has been dead for many, many years.”

“S-Spanish Inquisition?” d’Artagnan’s brown eyes went wide.

“Hush, boy.” Athos whispered theatrically. “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”  *

“I should say not! Didn’t that happen years ago?” d’Artagnan asked nervously.

“Yes. Well over a hundred, actually - may Old Scratch tend to them and all their ilk in hell,” Athos answered cheerfully. “Mother Church has found far subtler ways to roast our sinful innards and turn a tidy profit in the years since.”

He tugged at the boy’s collar in an effort to move him along, ignoring the scandalized glance d’Artagnan had thrown at him for his heretical remarks. It might take a few more months before the boy understood Athos’ subtle sense of humor; it was rather like learning to savor a fine, aged port.

Returning his attention to the perturbed big man glaring at his own bedroom door, Athos began to gently advise, “May I offer a suggestion? I think it best to desist calling our brother ‘alley cat’. He appears to take some offense at the mention of it.”

Porthos swung around to Athos.With a violent jab of his thumb in the direction of the closed door, he bellowed, “He’s in MY bed, ain’t he? Come scratchin’ at _my_ door, di’n’t he? So, jus’ why ain’t he in his own damned rooms? All the alleys in Paris closed for the night?” 

Something heavy struck at the other side of the door. Porthos threw an open-mouthed look of disbelief back at Athos. He’d just had two of his very own doors slammed in his very own face! On his own damned birthday! And now this?

He failed to see why the pretty bastard deserved so much consideration of _his_ wounded feelings in the moment. 

d’Artagnan looked owlishly between the two older musketeers, but knew better than to speak up at this point. He may not have been in the company of these three for very long, but he was a remarkably quick study.

“Captain Treville has concerns for his safety should the news of the noblemen's deaths gets out at this point,“ Athos answered calmly.

“Did he kill them?” d’Artagnan spoke up cautiously, intrigued by this new, curious bit of information.

“No. Aramis did not. The murder _ess -_ who, incidentally, was Aramis’ companion tonight _-_ is in Treville’s custody.” Athos said in a lowered voice as he took the cards that d’Artagnan was still anxiously clutching. This time, he forcibly pulled the befuddled young man to his feet by the collar of his shirt.

d’Artagnon briefly dangled like a puppet from Athos’ commanding grip while Porthos sputtered, “What! Who…? Why...?“

“Treville must see Aramis at the first light of day. I will bring fresh clothes, his uniform and service weapons tomorrow and see to it that he gets to his debriefing. If you could just see to it that he gets some rest tonight? Please?”

“Not exactly the night I had planned for my birthday,” Porthos grumbled.

“I don’t think any of us got the night we were hoping for, my friend - including Aramis. Perhaps we will know more tomorrow,” Athos said, re-setting his hat firmly on his head while pressing the youngest of their brotherhood toward the door. “Or perhaps we won’t.”

“More of his bloody spy intrigues, I suppose?” Porthos asked, low enough to be heard only by Athos.

The blue-eyed soldier shrugged in a manner that Porthos found far too casual to be sincere while he patted d’Artagnan’s hat haphazardly onto the young man’s head and tucked his doublet into his arms with equal haphazardness.

“I know ONLY this much: It was the lady’s husband and another man - of the husband’s rumored _intimate_ acquaintance - both of whom had met a very violent end tonight. You may already have surmised, as did I, that our brother was present for the event. The entire scene was, as you can imagine, quite chaotic and details are remarkably, but predictably - given this a classic Aramis predicament - sparse. As it stands, you can learn nothing more of value from me.” He gave an infuriating lift of his shoulders with a spread of arms that signaled: _That’s all. What can I do?_

“You know more, Athos! You shot out of the pub t'night like a man with his coattails on fire as soon as I mentioned sightin' Aramis’ other social engagement.”

“I knew enough about Aramis' lady friend and her dangerously mercurial nature to suspect that he would have been in some danger tonight. More than that is not my tale to tell, mon cher,” Athos said with a wave of his hand that seem to denote some secretive authority.

“Soon after events had transpired this evening, we dutifully sent for Treville,” the older musketeer added. “Treville, in turn, assigned me my sole chore in this fiasco: get our brother to your door. So, here we are! I don’t know much more, and Aramis’ mood has not inclined him to make me any wiser on the matter. There is sure to be an inquiry, albeit, not a public one if this incident can be handled quickly - before the flood of gossip and misinformation begins boiling in the streets.”

“Not public!” Porthos squawked. “How’s that?”

“One of the two dead men is - was - a duke. An ambitious one, at that. He was a fairly recent addition to the King’s court. He had come to Paris in early spring and had been actively seeking a way onto the King’s Council. You may remember him - as much for his annoying presence as his beautiful, but extremely flirtatious, wife.”

“Who apparently fancied our rascally brother,” Porthos interjected loudly for the benefit of Aramis’ ears. “She must surely be the one who got him to come runnin' outta the alley at the snap of her fingers!”

That remark resulted in a loud noise from Porthos’ bedroom, as if furniture were being upended.

Athos calmly blocked Porthos’ furious march toward the bedroom. “It’s true she is regarded as a remarkably bold and aggressive woman in bedroom matters...,” he posited while he eased Porthos back toward his fireplace and chair.

He winced as an unidentified metal object struck the back of the closed door with a clang, an unspoken reaction to his statement, so he continued with a measure of sympathy in his voice, “Our Aramis has surely been in her sites over the past few weeks.”

“And vice versa, I’m sure!” Porthos said, lifting his voice toward his bedroom. Another unknown item struck the closed door. “And he wonders why I call him ‘alley cat’.”

This time there was a powerful thud as a heavier object hit the door, rocking it in its hinges again.

Athos raised a scolding finger at Porthos as the wide-eyed d’Artagnon inched closer to the exit in reaction to the last outburst from the bedroom. “There is more to the story than meets the eye, Porthos.” Athos said gravely.

The bedroom door opened abruptly at that moment. 

d’Artagnan jumped in spite of himself, startled by the sudden appearance of a grim-faced Aramis. Was this a typical night with these three?

Aramis leaned out, hands braced on the frame, eyes dark with anger. With as much abruptness as he had appeared, the man swiftly assumed a bumptious but visibly awkward swagger as he stepped back into the room. He finally settled on standing tall and brushing damp curls of dark hair from his flushed face. He now pretended as if he were simply surprised by the arrival of the other three, as if they were making a casual visitation, and he had only just noticed them.

If he had heard Porthos’ bluster or had listened to Athos’ woefully incomplete report on his evening’s mishaps or had noticed d’Artagnan’s nervous demeanor, he gave no indication as he stood before the open doorway.

However, behind him lay the shambles of Porthos’ bedroom, attesting to the fact that he had, indeed, heard every word.

“DAMMIT, ARAMIS!” Porthos roared, pointing a shaking finger furiously at the mess.

Ignoring the outburst, Aramis said imperiously, “With sincere hopes that I am not disturbing your chin-wag-and-chat session, gentlemen, I would ask Brother Porthos if I may have loan of a fresh night shirt?”

“Wha-? A night shirt!”

“Yes. I had a devil of a time locating one in there.” He waved a hand at the destruction behind him. “As you can see.”

“Jus’ sleep in those damn rags ya stole off o’ Serge!”

“These garments - _kindly_ lent to me by Serge - are wool and bite at my...” He faltered for a moment, wincing and then picking primly at the neck of the overly large shirt hanging on his lean frame. “At my shoulders and back,” he continued with just a hint of defensive haughtiness. Then, eyes darkening again, he ground out between clenched teeth: “A fresh shirt, i _f you please_.”

“I do NOT ‘please’! I can not believe the unbelievable cheek of...”

“Porthos.” There was a warning tone in Athos’ voice.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever,” Porthos sighed gustily, slapping down the handful of cards he had curled in his fist at last and throwing up his hands in surrender, resigned to this absolute miserable ending to his evening. “In the larger of the two trunks. On the far side of the - ”

Aramis had disappeared back into the bedroom before he ended his sentence.

“If you haven’t thrown everything in both of them at my bloody door already, that is!” Porthos shouted after him.

No response. No prissy “thank you”.No pretty-boy smile.

_Bastard popinjay._

“It’s the man’s manners ‘n’ gratitude that makes ‘im so precious, eh?” Porthos’ voice was filled with sarcasm.

“Please. Patience, brother!” Athos cautioned as he reached for the entry door’s handle. “For what it’s worth, he specifically asked to come here. Door-slamming and furniture throwing aside, he wanted to be _here_ , Porthos. With you.”

“Yeah? Well, remind me to thank ya for bringin’ back the alley cat as my birthday present,” the big man grumbled. “Maybe as a partin’ gift, ya could jus’ gimme a few swift kicks t’ the head to round out the rest o’ my celebration?”

Athos lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, glancing toward the bedroom as he leaned toward the big soldier’s ear. “Listen to me! No matter what he’s done to get your tail in such a twist tonight, let it go for now. Your pointed insults and prickly behavior are fueling him. He’s been alternately morose and jittery since the end of his adventure earlier. You know that’s not like him. He’s usually very focused in situations like this. He revels in the drama. But, not tonight.”

Bumping the bewildered d’Artagnan closer to the door, Athos continued, “Treville’s main concern tonight is for Aramis’ safety and the control of the story around the incident. It is just for tonight. I will be by in the morning with his uniform.”

Athos lifted his hat in a brief farewell and said, “Seems absurd to say it now, but... ‘Happy Birthday’ brother. I truly wish it had gone differently.” With that, he guided his junior out the door with a firm pressure to his back. d’Artagnan’s flurry of whispered questions and Athos’ irritated protestations for silence could be heard before the door had even closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Had to do it. Too much of a MPFC aficionado to pass up the chance. Sorry, Athos. You had to be the one.


	3. Alley Cat - Part Two

There was a brief rattle of his entry door handle. From the outside. A reminder from Athos to secure the lock for the night. To Porthos, it was also a signal that the intrigues were not ended.

Porthos grimaced as he peevishly slapped the locking bolt into place. He still hadn’t shed any of his resentment over the loss of his anticipated birthday celebration, but Athos - damn him - had slyly suggested some possibly convincing arguments for Aramis’ thoughtless behaviors today.

 _Intrigues_ , he thought darkly. _Ain’t got any use for intrigues on my birthday._

Dammit, Athos.

Now there was nagging doubt to contend with, too.

Athos knows something. What had their _alley cat_ brother gotten himself into tonight? What might have happened with such suddenness that all thought of the single day that he and Porthos had looked forward to for so long would have been driven from his handsome brother’s head?

What womanly wiles could have turned his head so quickly despite a promised birthday celebration hanging in the balance? 

Athos knew.

The intrigues.

Porthos spread the last of the burning coals still glowing in the brazier, picked up his lantern and turned to face his own bedroom with equal measures of pique and curiosity.

The _prince_ of intrigues was in his bedroom.

He could hear him moving about. Probably picking up the mess he had made, driven by his peculiar sense of repentance for unreasonable acts - if he knew Aramis at all. The man was still making small noises charged with impatience and irritation, though.

“Repentant, he may be,” Porthos grumbled to himself, “But still behaving like a posh little prick.”

This definitely was not how Porthos imagined his birthday celebration night was to have ended. He should have taken his coin purse and his imagination to the brothel nearest the Ruddy Duck Inn.

When he entered his bedroom, it was dimly lit by one small candle at the bedside. He saw Aramis half-hidden in the shadows at the foot of the bed, anxiously struggling to find a way into the heap of soft fabric that was Porthos’ night shirt.

Athos was right, he thought. Aramis _was_ behaving oddly. There was definitely something amiss.

Before Aramis could completely drop the generous folds of the borrowed shirt over himself, the brighter light of Porthos’ lantern caught a shocking array of scarlet stripes scattered over his lean, muscular back and shoulders. Porthos sucked in a breath, but one glance at the defiance in Aramis’ eyes told him neither comments nor inquiries would be entertained.

“So...” Porthos breathed out as calmly as he could while appearing to nonchalantly reach for and extinguish the burning candle at the bedside. The sight of Aramis’ abused back and shoulders had shaken him momentarily. He sat heavily onto the bed and threw one leg up onto the thick mattress. Leaning back against the simple wooden headboard, he looked expectantly at the silent figure huddled at the far end.

It was clear Aramis wasn’t going to offer any explanations, so Porthos attempted to start the conversation. “Athos tells me Treville wants you in protective...”

“Athos! Athos says too much! He is like a cellar full of spoiled, over-fermented wines - popping corks and spewing useless froth everywhere! Non-stop!,” Aramis shouted.

Porthos lifted his eyebrows at that outburst, broadcasting a look of shock, but secretly amused by the ill-fitting description of their fussy, typically taciturn, older brother.

Aramis was spewing his own brand of ‘useless froth’. “As for Treville and his orders... If it weren’t for _orders_ , I wouldn’t have found myself at the point of my own...” He stopped abruptly, looking as if he had just noticed Porthos was in the room. The big man was leaning toward him, paying close attention.

In yet another disjointed outburst, Aramis angrily said, “I can damn well defend myself!”

 _What in the hell was the man going on about?_ Porthos wondered. He hadn’t seen any weapons. Defend himself? From what? What did Treville have to do with this?

To his annoyed friend, he chose to use the neutral ground of the Athos subject to approach Aramis. He needed to find a way to get an explanation for the lacerations he had spotted in the dim glow of the lantern. “How odd that you consider Athos to be such a ‘frothy’ fellow,” he began. “I hold very different feelings about the amount of information he was willing to divulge tonight. He said nothing, for instance, about those injuries of yours.”

Aramis turned his head, but did not make eye contact. He was holding himself taut as if daring his dark brother to make further comment on what he had seen.

So, he did. “Am I truly expected to keep quiet about what I just saw on your back, _mon cher_?”

When, once again, there was no response, Porthos frowned.

Aramis had turned completely away from him, occupied now with the careful folding, unfolding and re-folding of the rich brocade and velvet clothes in which he had been adorned earlier in the evening. Porthos simply watched him for the moment, assembling in his mind a list of the fractured bits of information he had been able to glean so far.

Aramis’ mysterious assignation. Athos’ hasty retreat from the Ruddy Duck. Two dead noblemen? A murderess? Treville? ’Orders’? And now, painful evidence that Aramis’ misadventure had had some cost for him.

This silence was maddening.

“Failing an explanation for the raised wales across your back, brother, perhaps you could offer something else regarding your adventures tonight?” Porthos persisted.

“You called me ‘alley cat’.” Aramis’ retort was sharp and inexplicable.

Hardly the enlightenment Porthos sought. “Did I?” He sighed. “I can only recall voicing my concern regarding you and Athos choosing to absent yourselves from my birthday celebration without explanation. A celebration, by the way, that you had called ‘ _sacrosanct’_. Remember?”

The heavy silence returned. He noticed a sudden lift of the man’s head and thought he heard a single self-chastising curse. 

Perhaps Aramis had truly forgotten the event. But, even forgiving that, Porthos needed to know what - or who - could have caused such a grievous disruption to their plans tonight and - not insignificantly - the damage to Aramis’ shoulders and back.

Aramis made a half-turn toward him, and for a moment, Porthos happily imagined his friend looked as if he were about to apologize again, to offer a perfect explanation, to beg a tender forgiveness and to propose a new and raucous celebration to repair the failure of the night’s plans for his beloved brother. 

However, with a resolute shake of his head, Aramis simply returned to a stony silence.

His moment of hope crushed, Porthos felt his barely-controlled annoyance rise again. He still let the silence stretch out between them. Patience would have its little rewards, he kept telling himself.

Yet there was no sign of remorse when, forced by the awkwardness of Porthos’ quiet siege on his own silence, Aramis’ finally spoke. Instead, his usually soft voice was full of reproach. “When Athos shoved me so unceremoniously through your door - ‘alley cat’! In front of the young one d’Artagnan! - ‘Alley cat’You. Called. Me - “ 

Making an accusing gesture at his friend, he repeated the wounding pejorative in an angry, but fair, mimic of Porthos’ deep baritone, “‘Alley cat’!” In that same moment, the large cuff of Porthos’ shirt slipped back to reveal bright red stripes over Aramis’ wrists.

This time, Porthos made his shock much more apparent. His eyes widened, and he quickly sat up to reach toward his injured friend.

Aramis bolted up from the bed to avoid his grasp and paced toward the door. 

“Aramis, stop! Where are you going?”

“You called me ‘alley cat’,” Aramis repeated.

“I can’t believe y’re seriously tryin’ t’ change the subject! Again! Y’re hurt, man! Tell me what happened!”

There was no response. He had stopped abruptly at the door. A few drops of blood, visible just under the cuffs of the night shirt, had caught his attention. Looking down at his damaged wrists, he cursed under his breath again and bolted into the other room.


	4. Here KittyKittyKitty

Porthos watched in wonderment as the man headed to a small cupboard and threw both doors open with more force than necessary.

“Dear Jesus, save my doors! What is wrong with ya tonight?” he shouted, unaware of what had sent Aramis into this new frenzy. “Are ya goin’ to tell me or not? What’s got ya so spooked?”

Aramis deftly avoided the big man’s pointed questions, shouting back at him, “Mother of God, Porthos! You are really the most perplexing fellow I know! I keep your cupboard stocked with all manner of salves, teas, and tinctures to keep you safe, sound and healthy, yet now - when I have need of them - there are none to be found!”

Porthos dropped his head onto his hands, annoyed with himself as much as the brother who was searching noisily in drawers and cupboards in the other room. He had let Aramis skid them off-subject again! What had he done to push Aramis back into this aggravating defensive behavior? What would it take to get the man calmed down again?

He wondered, as he listened to the cupboard doors being thrown open again for yet another noisy, fruitless search, how Athos might have handled the situation.

Right.

The Athos Solution.

He reached under his bed and pulled out a large, round-bellied jug.

Rum.

Far from Athos’ aristocratic tastes, but it would suffice.

Porthos had won it from some cocky wharf-rat who fancied himself a card sharp. The big musketeer had schooled him in the differences between a common braggart and an actual card sharp.

He pulled the cork stopper loose with his teeth and forcefully spat it across the room. There weren’t going to be any answers forthcoming from his companion tonight, so... Time to just change the damn subject. Again. Two could play at this chaotic game.

He raised the bottle and grumbled “Fuck it!” by way of a birthday toast to himself.

Loudly, he said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!” and took several generous swallows, welcoming the scratchy burn in his throat and the immediate flush of warmth in his chest. What he did NOT welcome was the hiss of the Athos Voice in his head again, warning him against the deviousness of rum. Its enchanting infamy. Its ability to fog the matter, no matter what the matter was.

Doors were being slammed shut again, but the heady buzz gifted to him by the rough spirits sank into his brain with such unanticipated swiftness, he imagined it took the edge off the noise.

Certainly, he was beginning to care less. And understand even less than he cared.

He heaved a loud, exasperated sigh.“What can I say, brother?” His voice sounded unnaturally loud in his ears. “Those salves ‘n’ teas ‘n’ tinctures are frequently used! By me! T’ keep me safe! Sound! And healthy, too! Would ya believe it? So unless yer little gifts are meant to multiply in that cupboard like tiny biblical loaves-n-fishes an’ y’re tellin’ me y’re the predicted Second Comin’ of the Christ with regards to those procreatin’ salves, teas ‘n’ tinctures, y’ll have to accept that sometimes I jus’ can’t have medicines always on hand for the occasions that I find ya curled up like some damned alley cat on my doorstep - on my birthday! - needing salves an’ solace!”

He hadn’t realized, when he stopped, feeling a little breathless from his impromptu tirade, that he had raised his voice until it ended in a booming crescendo. He promptly cured his breathlessness - and his need for any further tirade - with another go at the overly-friendly rum.

The silence in the rooms was nearly deafening. He listened carefully, the rim of the jug poised on his lower lip in anticipation. Surely the man had heard him.

Then: “Fuck you! I don’t need solace!” he heard Aramis grouse. “I do need salves!”

Another swallow of rum was in order. _There. That’ll keep me from stranglin’ him_.

The cupboard doors were opened and slammed shut with a sharp bang once again, causing Porthos‘ frown to deepen. That last go-round with the cupboard was wholly unnecessary and was likely meant to stoke his aggravation.

He took yet another generous swallow of the dark rum.

There’s been a lot of slamming of doors in these rooms tonight, he observed to himself with a tad more distance from it in his head than he had just moments before.

Aramis was pacing again in the other room.

Porthos heard the scrape of a chair over the wooden floor. He rolled to the edge of his bed to peer around the door jamb. He could just make out a shadowed form - seated, head in hands - a forlorn figure backlit by the last of the firelight.

Something was very, very wrong, Porthos mused again. He sighed, feeling a pang of sympathy and affection for his forlorn brother.

Where had _that_ come from? He hadn’t been feeling too sympathetic a moment ago.

Maybe the rum had softened him up a bit - smoothed down his ruffled busted-birthday feathers. Maybe it would afford him a bit more skill in approaching someone as volatile as Aramis seemed to be tonight.

“I’m aware there’s nothin’ in that cupboard - full ‘r empty -,” Porthos said in a deliberately gentled voice, “that I can offer to keep ya ‘safe’. Nothin’ to keep ya ‘sound’.An’ I’m sure ya’d just hate anythin’ else _I_ might suggest t’ keep ya ‘healthy’...” He shook the jug of rum as his nameless suggestion.

When there was no response from the other room, he continued softly, using the very same voice with which he would have spoken to a skittish horse. “But solace and safety - that I can offer.”

Aramis huffed an irritated reply. “I told you, I do not require solace.” 

Porthos sawhim seated by the fire grate, bent toward the last glow of firelight, woefully plucking at the cuffs of the shirt he was wearing, trying to examine his abused wrists.

“So, safety it is, then! That’s it, eh? Somethin’ spooked ya tonight? When Athos found ya?”

He saw Aramis straighten rigidly in the chair at that. “So you think I am unable to defend myself? You, too, think I am a helpless idiot?”

Porthos was confounded by that sudden reaction. “I didn’t say anything about - ”

“Is that why Athos shows up - as if summoned by God Almighty Himself - out of thin air to rescue me from my ... ?” Aramis’ mouth shut so quickly that Porthos wondered if he had truly heard a click of teeth snapping together.

What was that outburst about?

“Well, I can’t say as how God may have made an appearance down at the pub t’ tap our surly brother on the shoulder an’ tell him ‘bout yer predicament, but yer boy Athos did light outta there tonight in an awful hurry when I mentioned you being whisked away in a fancy carriage - dressed to yer pretty teeth in velvet and silks an’ seemin’ to be forgettin’ about out plans tonight. Athos musta suspected somethin’ was up with you; I didn’t even have time to get a proper mad on, before he was outta there, too. So, suddenly - it was jus’ me and the Pup. Look, why can’t ya just be thankful Athos was there for ya? An’ he brought ya here - to me - for safe-keepin’. Y’re safe here, Aramis. The name-callin’. The door slammin’. The shoutin’. All that nonsense! - when all ya really have t’ know, brother, is that tonight you are safe here with me. Everything else’ll get sorted out later, eh?“

“Yes. You are right,” Aramis said so quietly that it may have been meant for his own ears. “Later.”

He looks exhausted, Porthos thought. Preoccupied - a mind drifting miles away.

His own mind was drifting. In slow-tilting circles. Rum was the best. What was all the fuss about wines and ales and... and... He blinked and shook his head to clear it.

Back to the matter at hand. Where had that alley cat gone?

“Com’n now,” Porthos said aloud, hoping his words would fall on his brother’s ears, wherever those ears might be in these rooms. “Yer tired out from yer mysterious adventurin’. I’ll ask no more questions of ya, though it pains me mightily, brother, t’see ya like this.”

Aramis appeared to be ignoring him again. Porthos muzzily told himself his irritable companion must still be feeling raw about the alley-cat remarks. The big musketeer frowned; he regretted making the remark now. It certainly seemed to be an extraordinary provocation to the man tonight.

His reason slowly drowning in the effects of the rum, Porthos made the ill-considered decision to blunt the edge of his cat-insult with a softer, sweeter appellation for his friend.

Not an alley cat.

Maybe a... Kitty?

That’s it! He smiled triumphantly, pleased at his newest tact in the diplomatic takeover of his aggravated brother.

“Com’n. Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” he called out, following with a gentle clicking of his tongue. He softly patted a spot on the worn mattress beside him.

When Aramis’ head swiveled sharply to turn an ominously darkening eye on him, he took another fortifying swig from the jug. He’d gotten the kitty’s attention! Success! He pushed back the bedcovers with a seriously unwarranted sense of pride in his accomplishment.

This was beginning to feel like game - challenging though it was - with that bad-humored feline seated by the fire in the other room.

“I’ll fetch ya a nice saucer o’ cream,” he cajoled with a slow growl, a sly grin, and a comic waggle of his eyebrows.

His breath caught in his throat. Where had THAT come from? He lifted the jug to stare accusingly at it as he imagined Athos slapping his head with a heavy hand.

Bad timing?

The buzz in his head wasn’t distracting enough to muffle the guttural snarling sound he heard coming from the other room.

He paused the tip of the rum bottle at his mouth when he saw that Aramis had rolled his lower lip under the straight bright line of his teeth and was sending him a look of warning. Drunk or sober, he had been with his fellow musketeer long enough to read every deadly signal Aramis had in his considerable repertoire.

This one - the steely-eyed squint - was among the top five most dangerous.

Oops.

Yet it was simply impossible to turn back from the precipice.

 


	5. The Archangel

 

Even as he fell under Aramis’ stormy glare, Porthos bravely retained his alcohol-infused smile and found enough rum-soaked nerve to pat the bed again. Demon Rum gifted him with enough false confidence and an unnatural urge to press on through the Aramis Artillery of Threatening Behaviors. It allowed him - nay, forced him! - to persist in his ill-considered tease. 

“Here, kittykittykitty.”

He saw the feline figure at the fire grate rocket to its feet. “For God’s sake, Porthos! You bastard! You’re drunk?”

Porthos watched in open-mouthed wonder when the kitty rose up with that roar -

And disappeared!

Now - transformed before his admittedly blurry eyes and backlit in the last of the ruby glow from the fire grate - a mighty archangel stood, magnificent in its outrage.

And impressive in its radiant beauty.

_What is required of me now_? Porthos wondered in mild alarm, _a furious fight or a fiery fuck_? Surely, either would get him killed, but oh, what a wonderful way to die!

Porthos woozily pondered his imagined pleasurable choices as he tilted his head this way and that way in an attempt to follow, with blurring eyes, the celestial beauty as it paced. It raged on in the room just beyond his reach, with arms flailing and batting at unseen challengers, thundering in exotic languages that were foreign to the big soldier’s ears (but may have been Spanish were he sober enough to pay closer attention).

He found he was having increasing difficulty with the aspects of his short term memory. What was that alarming yet alluring archangel so excited about again? And how could he, the mighty Porthos, ever have been annoyed with such a glorious creature? He threw it a sloppy, but profoundly affectionate, air kiss.

With a shake of his head, Porthos’ other-worldly vision cleared, and he wondered if it was truly his Aramis that now stood where that suspiciously-familiar angel had been pacing, huffing and muttering in a voice very like his brother’s own.

“Jesus, give me patience!”

“Well, mate, Jesus ain’t here,” he said. “If he were, though, he’d probably encourage ya to take a wee bit o’ this delightfully _wicked_ rum!” He patted the belly of the jug and thrust it toward the Aramis/angel by way of an offering. Would one or both of the creatures he seemed to see standing in the doorway accept his libation?

He heard a derisive snort that was clearly very Aramis-like. The vision wandered out of his view, making it harder for him to sort out who was who. He decided another swig of rum would remedy the problem.

More undecipherable mutterings. More clattering from the other room. Was it the archangel again or Aramis?Or perhaps the cat came back? Venturing a wild guess on the superterrestial side, he called out: “Now what are you lookin’ for in that room, my pretty _archangel_? Not a prie-dieu, I hope.”

He finished his query with a flourish: a booming belch, followed by a sudden, violent hiccup that frankly surprised him.

“My dear Pickled Porthos,” came the angry response from beyond the doorway. “I know you well enough to recognize that you would have proscribed any prie-dieu in these rooms to a singular usefulness as a convenient catch-all for your discarded clothes.”

Ah! So it was Aramis! Which fierce archangel in God’s heavenly army would have bothered to have such intimate knowledge of his chaotic habits? 

Aramis’ prattle continued over the buzz building in his ears. “In which case, I would have to abandon any hope of being able to unearth one in here, since I know you prefer to leave your discarded items of clothing wherever the hell they fall.”

“Tsk. Tsk. <hiccup> So harsh, my pretty _brother_ ,” Porthos said with a manufactured sorrowful pout. He determined that the spiteful insult from the angel-brother in the other room required another swallow of rum as a consolation.“See here, _mon cher_ , if it would make ya settle down an’ come t’ bed, I will apologize for calling ya <hiccup> an alley cat.”

“As if I could be mollified so easily.” He heard Aramis grumble from somewhere in the dark. He could also hear the man anxiously checking the entry door lock, opening and closing the shutters at the lone window in the other room, and scuffing about in corners.

“Where, for God’s sake, are your weapons, man?”

“As always, my bee-yoo-tee-ful archangel <hic>,”Porthos chortled merrily, “Readily within my grasp!” He reached over the bedside at a precarious angle and rattled his full weapon belt noisily for effect. When he looked up, he saw Aramis standing in the doorway again, still tapping and rubbing distractedly at his sore wrists as he frowned down at his dark brother.

“To bed now, kittykittykitty.” The big musketeer hiccuped as he rolled back onto his bed. He paused mid-roll to look at the jug again with ever-growing suspicion. This rum must have magical properties to have emboldened his tongue so, he determined.

“Archangels? Cats? I can’t keep up with you when you are like this. At the very least, when Athos is drunk, he still can make great sport of challenging me - in perfectly executed classic Greek - to debate the works of Xenophon with him when he is well into his cups. You, on the other hand, inexplicably conjure archangels and cats!”

Porthos closed his eyes. The room was spinning. _Why_ , he wondered, _was Athos executing Greeks?_ Perhaps he wasn’t following Aramis’ blather as closely as he should.

The pretty man needed to shut up and drink rum. Maybe the archangel would join them, too. It would all make sense then.

Porthos continued to pat the empty space beside him ever so lightly. He was on a mission now.

“Kittykittykitty <hiccup>.”

“Oh, for the sake of the Risen Christ! So now? - must I forgive you for having the temerity to call me an alley cat? Even as you lay there and drunkenly summon me with your insulting ‘kittykittykitty’!”

Porthos leaned back on his large bed, threw one arm over his broad chest and sent a hearty belly laugh toward the rafters. “Never for having temerity! Without temerity, how else could I dare t’ jape ya with such merciless affection, _mon cher_?”

He heard the other man sigh. “Merciless affection. Of course.” It sounded like a small, subtle sign of acquiescence to Porthos. As drunk as he was, he could still sense Aramis’ surrender was near. 

“Kittykittykitty. <hiccup>...” _The importance of persistence_ , he thought. _Soldier on, soldier!_ “Kittykitty...  <hic>...kitty.”

Porthos heard his brother in arms grind his teeth again at the sound of his nearly sub-audible summons.He sensed Aramis was moving, however. With feline stealth! He was back in the room, probably glowering at Porthos’ smug look of triumph.

“Do _NOT_ call me ‘alley cat’.”

Porthos heard the command as he felt the mattress shift a bit at the end of the bed and smiled to himself. He popped open one eye to look down the bed to where Aramis now sat. Dark curls askew, nearly lost in the copious fabric folds of Porthos’ night shirt, he looked more adorably waif-like than angelically warrior-like.

The big musketeer swung his eyes slowly back to the doorway to his other room. Had the archangel been oddly transformed? Again? He swung his eyes back to the waif who was still holding one finger in the air in a manner meant to both warn and scold, which struck the big, drunk musketeer as riotously funny. A crooked smile spread to a sloppy grin as he continued to pat the empty space beside him.

“Done. <hiccup> As you command, my pretty archangel.”

“Never ever again, Porthos. I mean it! No ‘alley cat’! And I don’t know what your ‘archangel’ mutterings are about, but you can stop that nonsense right now as well.”

Aramis looked very, very, _very_ serious. Porthos did his level best to move the slightly rum-numb parts of his face to mimic the pretty man’s serious look, nodding very slowly and very carefully in an effort to respond compliantly - and more importantly, in order not to pitch himself off the bed.


	6. To Confess Or Not To Confess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My egocentric apologetics for not posting in such a long time include a fruitless search for sun and warmth this past winter. After criss-crossing the country in my (failed) mission, I came to the conclusion I was (a) in entirely the wrong season and (b) in entirely the wrong hemisphere. 
> 
> Duh. So, a seasonal loss of muse (#hibernation) happened. 
> 
> This story is done, and I will post all the last chapters over the next couple of weeks.
> 
> I hope these last chapters won’t have lost too much of the story’s tone and timing because of the long… er… “pause”. Please forgive my lapse.
> 
> More musing over muse(s) in the notes at the end. Just more whining, really.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Porthos now had a new problem: His distressed brother had effectively ordered him to cease the only drunken appellations of profound affection his nattered brain could come up with and, drunk or not, Porthos hated to be ordered about when he was on a mission of his own. 

Fueled as he was by delightful grog, he forged ahead in search of another not-so-sober sobriquet for his friend.

“Alley-angel?” he muttered, ignoring the slow deadly turn of his brother’s head.

“Archkitty?” he mumbled, still seemingly unaware of the gathering storm clouds settling over the end of the bed where his brother sat.

“Nah... Tha’ don’ seem right,” he grumbled on. “Are ya a...?”

“Perhaps you should just stop talking.” The suggestion from the other end of the mattress should have seemed polite, delivered as it was, in a low even tone.

A sober man would have taken it as a warning.

“Or maybe you should just stop drinking.” Another suggestion, less polite, more dangerous, this time.

And then:“Don’t force me to punch you on your birthday, brother. So help me, God.”

“Oi!” Porthos belched and frowned. “At least, a punch would be some kind of offerin’ from ya for my birthday, eh?”

He gave the jug an insolent shake in Aramis’ direction. “I got two choices tonight, don’ I? Drink rum <hic> ’n’ accept the pain in my head it’s surely gonna give me _later_ , OR -“He jabbed one dark finger in the approximate direction of his guest. “ - jus’ accept the pain in my arse y’re givin’ me _now_!”

His tirade lost a bit of its potency punctuated as it was by another resounding belch.

Fortunately, there was still enough rum thrumming in his head to fuel his next ill-advised remark. He delivered it with a scholarly insight that one only finds at the bottom of a jug of questionably fermented molasses.

“Look, my man, considerin’ all yer drama t’night ‘cuz o’ yer bedtime escapades, maybe ya should stick to honin’ yer marksman skills and leave that other shite behind. Work at what yer naturally good at ’n’ ya can make as great a name for yerself as I have!”

“Honing my...?” The other man gasped, rising to his feet. “HONING?” His voice rose as he did. “Oh yes! Of course! How can I argue against such brilliance when, clearly, your brawling skills are such a _precise_ art, and my marksmanship skills are such a damned _free-for-all!_ ”

Aramis was punching empty air wildly in frustration, still shouting. “And I happen to be really damn good at what you call ‘bedtime escapades’, too!”

Porthos’ eyes widened. How had _he_ offended, exactly? He was merely trying to offer some sage, brotherly advice.

Swinging his legs over the bed to the floor, he sat up, wavering for a moment. Squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to slow the spinning his new upright position created, he grunted, “Good God, jus' calm down. At least be grateful that Demon Rum is sparin’ ya the proper hidin’ ya deserve from - ”

He stopped abruptly, the memory of the injuries he had glimpsed earlier sobering him. He glanced up at Aramis, who had frozen in place and was staring down at him as if stunned. Porthos felt a twinge of guilt that had somehow managed to get past the rum-hum in his head.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, brother.” Porthos lifted one hand in a gesture of peace. “I think we need a truce here. Yer upset. I’m upset. <hic>” He dropped his eyes to the jug he held tucked in the crook of one arm. “Or at least, I _was_ upset. My woes kinda seems less important now for some reason...”

He lifted his eyes back to Aramis and jabbed a finger at him again, “However... YOU!... Y’ve had yer tail in a twist ever since ya barged into my rooms t’night, and I think it’s time we had a conversation ‘bout that. What happened to ya t’night? I think I earned the right to know what manner o’ trouble ya got yerself into that brother Athos had to rescue ya and I had to accommodate ya. On the night o’ my birthday, no less.”

Porthos saw Aramis squirm at his question. Perhaps he should have couched his query in less personally galling terms. Yet, given the man’s fiery behavior this evening and his own tenuous hold on the last bit of sobriety he may have this evening, the big musketeer did not feel the need to be less provocative.

Nevertheless, he was sobering up fast enough to add a sloppy teasing smile to his inquiry to lessen its harshness. He knew the path to Aramis’ heart and soul was not accessible by demands or threats, sober or drunk.

The other man was still silent, but this time Porthos could tell he was not acting out of defiance. Was he weighing words and reconsidering his confessional options? Was surrender near?

When he returned to sit again at the end of the bed, he looked a bit resigned.Lifting his forearms so that the loose fabric of Porthos’ shirt that was pooling around his wrists slid gently back, Aramis revealed, in the soft light from the lantern, bright red striping and bruising over his skin.

Porthos hissed softly in sympathy for the sight he saw.

“So, that woman ya went off with t’night - yer duchess - she did that? And that lashing on yer back as well, did she?”

“Yes and no. The duchess did not…” Aramis stopped so abruptly that Porthos was able to easily surmise his handsome companion’s own self-censure was bedeviling him.

Coming from Aramis, the story would not be like the ordinary loose talk spilled in noisy pubs, shared on long boring trails, or bragged over camp fires. Others may talk endlessly about Aramis’ sexual adventures and bedroom conquests, but the man himself would not. A nod and a wink, let them think what they think; if it was about him, idle gossip never seemed to concern him.

There was naked bitterness in Aramis’ voice tonight, though. He didn’t look at Porthos, but continued to play absently with the cuffs of the nightshirt. “Then again, it’s safe to say at this point, she bears a bit of the responsibility. The rest I can chalk up to my own stupidity. It was a spy mission, Porthos. And I had damn near completed it before this happened.”

“What? What happened? Tell me.”

“A man has his pride.”

Porthos snorted. “Bollocks! We both know a man has his pride only when a man has his sword drawn, his pistol primed ’n’ at least one escape route open!”

Aramis gave him a wan smile. “Such wisdom, big man. Is that demon rum talking?”

The smile Porthos returned was broad and bright. “Rum cannot talk, pretty man. If it did, I’d be forcin’ it on ya! We all figured ya’d been playin’ at some kinda game over these last few weeks with that duchess. T’night’s the first time I’ve imagined ya doin’ yer boudoir-bouncin’ between the sheets on behalf of King Louis though!”

Aramis winced.

“Please, let’s just - for the sake of the last bit of dignity I have left - refer to this as a ‘spy mission’. As forwhat you have so delicately termed ‘boudoir-bouncing’... It wasn’t - uhm - _intimate_ at first. When the intrigue began, the duchess was content enough with mere flirtations and attentions,” he said. “But she was... _is_ a very persistent and persuasive woman. My cause was aided by the fact that she openly despised her husband. That should have been an alarm for me. He was neglectful, humiliating her with an open affair with a male lover throughout their marriage. Perhaps I afforded her far too much sympathy on that account. In the end, she clearly used it all, including me, to try to get what she wanted. ”

When Porthos arched an eyebrow in curiosity, Aramis took a deep, shuddering breath and continued. “She successfully played the ‘neglected maiden’, so I acted the ’interested admirer’. The duke used his marriage as a shield against the wagging tongues while he kept to the bed of his older lover, Count Radetz, an Austrian noble. The handiwork that you see imprinted across my back is his.”

He allowed Porthos to gently lift the nightshirt away from his abused shoulder and hissed when his friend lightly laid a finger over one red, raised welt.

“Oi, Aramis.” Porthos sucked in a breath, shocked at what he was able to see in the dim light. ”What had ya got yerself into?”

“All in the service of the Crown, brother,” Aramis sighed, pulling the nightshirt back over his shoulder. “You see, the duke’s peculiar behaviors as a newcomer in the King’s Court may have fooled some, but not our First Minister. Cardinal Richelieu was annoyed by the man almost as soon as he and his retinue arrived in Paris seeking a court position.”

“What was the man’s great sin in the cardinal’s eyes? Breathing?”

Aramis shrugged. “The old red devil has good instincts sometimes, mon cher. As much as I hate to admit it. In the cardinal’s opinion, the duke was far too cloying in his adorations of the King, far too inquisitive regarding the fiscal health of the King’s Purse, far too obvious in his ambitions. Also, he was from far too minor a peerage to be of any real value to the court in Richelieu’s estimation. Once he caught the notice of Cardinal Richelieu, our dear prime minister focused his hawk-like attention on the man. Needless to say, the duke’s lifestyle - hidden affairs, neglected wife, shady finances - prompted Richelieu to order Captain Treville to instigate an investigation. I was ordered to befriend the duke’s wife - about six weeks ago - to find out as much information as possible.”

“Treville gave you these orders?” Porthos squawked in astonishment.

“Not directly. That crucifix-wearing red devil already had my name on the order he handed to the captain. It had not escaped his notice that the duke’s wife had been circling me at the palace like a starved she-wolf. Richelieu knows when and how to press an advantage.”

Porthos snorted in mild amusement. “She must’ve really differentiated herself from the rest o’ the pack of she-wolves that stalk ya on a regular basis. Were ya returnin’ her attentions?”

Aramis hung his head, avoiding Porthos look of rebuke.“She was more than happy to play the game with me. Perhaps more willing than expected, now that I reflect on it. When she upped her personal demands of me in exchange for information, I should have been wary that she was capable of creating intrigues of her own. More the fool, me.”

“So, ya think she knew ya were usin’ her?”

Aramis squirmed. “Very likely,” he answered. “She was certainly more wily than I anticipated. I was an idiot to be blind to the ambitions she had for herself. She must have known our little game of intrigue would end with her husband destined for the executioner’s scaffold. Yet she had been so eager to give me damning information over the course of our affair. It began innocently enough, but the more evidence she provided me with, the more demands she began making of me.

“As the evidence against her husband began mounting, she must have realized that leaving Paris in a cloud of scandal as the widow of an executed traitor was probably not nearly as lucrative for her as leaving as the widow of a cuckhold husband who died in a duel between him and her lover - which was me. She set the stage for her liberation tonight. Our deaths would leave her with a large estate, a title, a fortune and her reputation intact.”

“She plotted to kill her husband! She was going to kill you as well!,” Porthos said in a shocked whisper.

Aramis nodded. “Her husband’s arrest was imminent. I only needed a little more information from her. She must have sensed the end was coming. I believe now that she sent for me tonight after having told her husband that I was a spy, which would have made him - and her - victims of a plot of my making in his mind. She must have convinced him that he could spare his reputation at court by killing me in a duel. She arranged to have him and his lover interrupt our bedroom assignation, posing as the enraged cuckold.Her plan was simple: Kill him, kill his lover, and then kill me.”

His handsome face reddened, visibly shaded even in the dim lantern light. “He... they... _we_ were all surprised by the lady’s cunning, though. When they broke into the bedroom on her signal, and I began trying frantically to free myself, I heard her coaching her husband to strike her, in order to make the whole scene more plausible. When he approached her to oblige, she killed him with the single shot from my pistol.”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. This odd story was sobering him up faster than a bucket of ice water to the face.

“Wait... What? Free yerself? From what? And why did she have yer pistol? What was the other guy doing?”

“The other man was beating me - ” He motioned to his welt-covered shoulders. “ Quite soundly with his cane. Until she killed him with my rapier. Right after she had dispatched her husband. For my part, I was... uhm...” 

Aramis turned his face to the shadows, unwilling to look at his companion. “I was struggling to free myself from satin bonds that tethered my wrists to the duchess’ bed. I was trying to get loose before she killed me, the last pawn in her plan,” he spoke in a rush. “Kill me, then untie me, then blame my death on a fight between me, her husband and his lover. Her complete fiction would frame me for the murder of the other two. Enter, Brother Athos. My savior.”

Porthos’ mouth fell open.

“Wait, wait, wait. I got the Athos part, I think. Back it up. Back to the... What was it ya said? Satin bonds? As in - ya were tied up? YOU? To a bed? Like... bondage? YOU! What the hell...? I can’t even keep ya restrained in a combat hold without havin’ to listen to yer constant whinin’ and howlin’!”

“Well, there is rarely the same kind of promise in a combat hold, is there?” Aramis shot back testily.

“Well, I’ll certainly make a point of changin’ _that_ up the next time I’ve got ya pinned under me!”

“I’m trying to explain what happened, and all you can think about is me tied to a bed! Are you really that damn drunk?”

“I promise ya, pretty man - drunk or sober - I won’t be able to get that image outta my head for the rest of the week! Month! Years, maybe!”

“God, give me patience...”

“God gives you rum!” He shook the jug at his companion again. 

When Aramis steadfastly ignored the rum, he simply continued his interrogation. “Did Athos see this damage?”

“Circumstances were such that he could not have missed seeing it.”

“What did he say? How...?”

“You know Athos. He treated me to the full gamut of his emotive expressions.”

“Which is to say...”

“Which is to say, he said nothing. As he is now the champion of this story and I am the dunce, I will tell you that he gallantly appeared at just the right moment. He heroically stopped the duchess from running my own rapier through my heart. He firmly restrained said duchess and - Thank God! - efficiently stifled her hysterics.Because, if she hadn’t killed me with my rapier, she would have certainly done so with her screaming and frenzied pleas of innocence. Athos, in his usual methodical manner, then cut me free, dropped my shirt into my arms, and sent a runner for Treville. He asked no questions, offered no judgements -simply ordered me to a waiting carriage to conceal myself from whatever curiosity seekers were sure to arrive. All impressively well-ordered. Very Athos-like.”

Aramis stopped his narrative abruptly, shaking his head, muttering to himself.

Porthos’ frowned. Had he heard all of this correctly or was the rum slipping his reality a bit more than he thought possible at this point in his inebriation? He hefted the bottle to test its weight. Still nearly full.

Clearly, he was going to have to sober up a bit to navigate this conversation now that Aramis seemed to show some willingness to talk instead of slamming doors and pacing floors. This was no time to be drunk. There were details to be plundered!

He offered a reasonably sensible plea for leniency on Athos’ behalf to start. “Seems to me Athos acted to remove ya from both harm _and_ speculation, brother.”

“Yes, yes. Most likely,” Aramis responded peevishly. “He accomplished one task admirably: removing me from harm and, for lack of a better term, exposure. As a spy, at least. I should be more grateful - though it remains to be seen if he will be successful at the other task: the speculation. It is the fuel that keeps the Court running, isn’t it? In any case, I suppose I should not make Athos the focus of my resentment. He did not orchestrate this. My own failures and foolhardiness color my view of tonight’s events.”

“So, the short of it is: ya got yerself caught up in some sex-n-intrigue game?”

“It’s not that simple, Porthos. I - “

“The best sex-n-intrigue games rarely are, ya git! Didn’t I just hear ya admit ya let yerself be tied up? Had a blade to yer heart? Held by the woman ya were supposed to be beddin’ t’night?”

Aramis’ handsome face colored. “I let her talk me into...”

“So, what I hear ya sayin’ is: ya let yer brain get up an’ walk away t’night, an’ ya let yer cock do yer thinkin’ from that point on?”

Aramis coughed as if he had been gut-punched. “I don’t think those will be the precise words that I will choose to use in my report to the captain tomorrow.“

“Why not? It’s not like he wouldn’t believe it, comin’ from you!”

“Perhaps when I give my summation to Treville on this matter, it would be in my best interest to use my own words, not yours - colorful and entertaining as he might find them.”

“Suit yerself,” Porthos grumbled. “If ya’d shown a lick of common sense like Athos...”

Aramis immediately bristled.“So, Athos is tonight’s hero because his common sense far outpaces mine?”

“You JUST admitted yer cock was doin’ yer thinkin’! Athos showin’ up when he did saved yer life, by my reckonin’, ya self-pityin’ prat!”

“Athos thinks I am a child and cannot defend myself!”

“No! Athos knows yer cock!”

At that, they both blinked wide-eyed at each other. Perhaps the conversation had wandered too far afield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse(s) returned in the form of some fairly subjective (rum) drinking songs that seemed to attach themselves specifically to Porthos, Aramis and Athos. 
> 
> If you have the time and want the extra bit of fun, please visit the YouTube channel (or the music service of your choice) for each of the song/muse that I have listed in the notes for each chapter. Note: I’m not your mom, so please practice good “adulting” practices when wandering about the internet. ;-)  
> For this chapter:  
> (Porthos' theme): “Rum!” by Pupa Leendi  
> (Aramis' theme) : “Surrender” by Lyrikal


	7. Yo, Ho, Ho And A Bottle Of...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salut! This chapter is the embodiment of POST-HASTE (pun intended). I just dropped it in, even though it could use some polish. But why change my style now? ;-)

With a small irritated grunt, Aramis grabbed for the jug of rum and spitefully pulled it from its position of propriety in the crook of Porthos’ arm. He meant to toss it to the far wall. However, as soon as he had it in hand, he paused to look at its dark mouth in the manner of a man looking at the length of rope from which he was surely going to hang.

He was aching. Annoyed. Anxious. And he had been unable to shake an irrational sense of fear, even though the threat of his demise had been quite effectively removed by his beloved brother Athos hours ago.

The siren call of Porthos’ rum was suddenly hard to ignore, but...

Rum. Did it have to be rum?

“Do you have anything... Anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Anything!” Aramis moaned with a shudder. “Boot black. Ash from the fireplace. Old rags. Anything must taste better than...”

“What ya got against rum, ya posh poseur?”

“I have a long list of complaints against it, but foremost is this: I’m French, Porthos. As are you. In fact, I’m not sure that drinking this swill isn’t an act of treason here in Paris.”

“Say what ya will about swill, _mate-y_ , I’m certain it’ll take the sting outta that stripin’ I saw on yer back,” Porthos retorted sharply. He was losing patience with this struggle.

And so, apparently, was his uninvited guest.

“Fuck you. And your rum.” Aramis pushed the jug back into Porthos’ arms, abruptly irritated again. The quick motion sent a pinch of pain across his back, a razor sharp reminder of his misadventure this evening.

Which, in turn, set off another wave of self disgust and judgement and the return of the irrational fear that haunted him since the moment he realized he could possibly have died in a most mortifying manner. Not the heroic demise he had imagined.

Porthos saw Aramis look worriedly toward the locked front door.

“Y’re safe here, brother,” he reassured the other man as he sensed the other’s odd concern. ”An’ I’m soberin’ up faster than Mother Superior when the Bishop walks in lookin’ for the altar wine.” He winked at Aramis, fingers drumming on the side of the jug in a little tempo of temptation.

When his comrade remained hesitant, he gave him an encouraging smile. “Rum! The _real_ water of life! Go ahead, mon cher. Drink up! And while y’re at that, I’ll stoke that fire back up in the grate and keep watch. No worry, no problems.”

“No.” Aramis was insistent again. “Despite the little common sense I’ve shown tonight, I seem to have enough of that sense remaining to know that I am a bit overwrought right now.” Still looking uncertain, he lifted the bottle in a salute. “That part of the night is done for now. I need to get it out of my head. I won’t have to revisit it until tomorrow morning in front of Captain Treville.”

He shuddered as if galled by the thought of that encounter to come, and resolutely lifted the jug higher. “Allow me to make this a _birthday_ toast, my friend - with heartfelt apologies for my having missed it. I think we will all agree that this night would have been far different if I hadn’t - ”

He went on and on, his talk dissolving into utter nonsense in Porthos’ mind.

The big musketeer frowned. _Would the man never shut up?_ He was stalling! Not one drop of rum had passed his lips, despite his nervous surrender to the inevitability moments ago.

Enough talking.

Porthos leaned forward to move the bottle to Aramis’ mouth. He held a finger to his own lips, signaling silence and tipped the bottom of the jug up firmly. “Talk less! Drink more!” he ordered with as much authority as a general in the midst of battle.

Aramis sputtered at the unexpected onslaught of alcohol. Pushing the jug away, he coughed violently and swiped at his tongue with a corner of the night shirt. “My God! That’s... That’s so much worse than I expected - and you have no idea of how low those expectations were! Where did you get - ?”

“Tsk, tsk, _mate-y_.” Porthos shouldered the jug expertly and took a short discriminating swig of his celebratory tipple this time _. “_ You simply lack finesse in the art of imbibing in this, brother. It has been the salvation of sailors for generations.”

“Sailors!” Aramis wheezed. “Is it too far into _your_ imbibing this evening for me to point out that neither of us enjoy careers that one might call ‘sea-oriented’?”

“Aw, c’mon. Try again. Practice makes perfect, ya always say.” He lifted the jug. “At the very least, the drink will give ya some relief from yer injuries. An’ it might calm yer damned nerves. Maybe y’ll stop worryin’ that yer still gonna die t’night.”

He shook the jug at Aramis again. “So? Ahoy! Mate-y?”

Aramis was eyeing him skeptically again. Porthos shoved the jug at him, his bright smile appearing decidedly crooked to Aramis now.

“Do you, at the very least - Please, God! - have some wine or port hidden somewhere in those dusty cupboards?”

“No wine. No ale. No brandy. No port. Not even sure I got water. I do, however, have this excellent rum.”

“Porthos, I think you will find the words ‘excellent’ and ‘rum’ are never to be found in the same sentence in polite conversation.”

“Ain’t nothin’ polite ‘bout this conversation! In case y’re forgettin’ - It’s my birthday.” He thumped his chest. “My room. My rum. My rules.”

Aramis took a deep breath. It was clear there would be only one ending to this evening’s disasters, and it was sure to compound all of them. However, when in Rome - Rum.

With a weak smile, he reached shakily for the jug. Cautiously following Porthos’ example, he shouldered the jug and tilted his mouth to its lip, still hesitant. “Well, it might certainly spin a happier ending out of this evening.”

“Can’t argue with _that_!” Porthos bellowed so loudly it startled Aramis enough to cascade more than the desired prudent mouthful straight to the back of his throat.

Porthos was quick to rescue the jug from his brother’s flailing hands as the man again coughed and struggled for breath. The big man shook his head, grimacing as if he were trying - and failing - to school a woefully simple child. 

_So. Much. Drama_ , he thought as he took another deep draught for himself and watched as Aramis hacked and gasped.

“Well, in any case,” he proclaimed over the sputtering and wheezing from his brother, “From the look o’ ya tonight, ya woulda been a helluva lot safer with me shootin’ melons off yer head at the Ruddy Duck.” He saluted Aramis with the bottle, tipped it back for another generous drink and then waggled it again in Aramis’ direction.

Aramis, his gagging now under control, straightened and looked with dismay at the offered jug with through watering, red-rimmed eyes.

There was no denying the odd warmth he was suddenly feeling spreading in his chest.

The almost-pleasant lightness in his head. 

The dulling of the aches and pains.

Were his ears deceiving him, or was the little sloshing sound of the rum in the jug as Porthos shook it at him making a merry little rhythm?He shuddered and reached for the jug, giving his companion what he hoped to God was a serious look of concern.

Three hearty belts of rum later, Aramis was leaning hard left against Porthos. “Are you happy now, Birthday Boy?” he muttered as he tried to right himself. No good. He was lulled back to the oddly comforting warmth of his friend’s sturdy shoulder.

When did he become so relaxed?Why was it so hard to sit up straight?

“Dammit. I-I seem to be listing... T-to ‘starboard’?”

“Port.” Porthos was shaking with laughter.

“Port!” Aramis sat upright more quickly than his body was prepared for, lurching helplessly against Porthos. “You have port? Where?” he asked with a small flicker of hope. Had Porthos been hiding a better beverage option all this time, forcing him to drink this swill in its stead?

“Port, mate-y. You’re _listin_ ’ to _‘port’_.” The delight in Porthos’ chuckling was evident. “Maybe a few more swigs will help school ya in the difference between port and starboard.”

******

A generous number of Porthos-curated swigs of rum later, Aramis was crawling slowly up the bed, clinging to blankets as if the bed had become the treacherously heaving deck of a ship caught in heavy seas.

Irritation - gone.

Anxiety - gone.

Fear - forgotten.

Everything, including the aches and pains, had simply been replaced by an odd, disquieting loss of balance and sensibility.

“God, please save me.” He repeated the prayer with every inch of mattress gained.

The whining and groaning from the stricken Aramis prompted Porthos to roll his eyes and say, without mercy, “You, my pretty man, are _not_ a good rum drinker.”

“ _Thereisnosuchthingasgoodrum_!” Aramis’ adamant but slurred declaration was muffled when he burrowed, face first, into Porthos’ favorite pillow. 

The big musketeer frowned as he regarded the man’s lamentably inconvenient position.

Aramis - the scourge of his disastrous birthday - had managed to gift him with yet another aggravation. Now, Porthos was forced to push, pull, tug and tuck the damn, drunken, uninvited posh pretty boy until the whining stopped, and he was able to free his favorite pillow for his own use.

“Y’re the very worst, Aramis!” he huffed as he punched and shouldered his pillow into a comfortable cradle for his woolly-feeling head.

Once he was settled in, he felt less antagonism and a bit more tenderness toward his soused bedmate. “See here, my brother -I will mangi... magnumi... <hic> magnanimously <hic> offer my apology o’er my thoughtless choice of names for ya. An’ since I am in such a generous mood, <hic> I’ll also forgive ya for my ransacked rooms and my ruined night shirt.”

“An’forgettin’yournameday?” The voice of utter misery was still muffled, and the words were most definitely slurred.

“Oh well! That! <hic> ” He took another thoughtful sip of rum from the jug he still commandeered. “ _That_ may require some serious consideration! Certainly, there mus’ be some creative punishments for - ”

Porthos stopped. Aramis was curled up against him, fast asleep, making that damnable purring sound that seemed to be his manner of alcohol-induced snoring.

The big musketeer shook his head and pulled a blanket up over Aramis, covering the one exposed, abused shoulder “What a pitiful drinker ya are, monsieur kitty. I expect yer gonna really feel yer first punishment as soon as ya attempt to open yer eyes in the morning. When Athos comes to collect ya. For Treville.” Porthos smiled to himself as the imagined scene played out behind his heavy, closing eyelids. “An’ I expect there’ll be even more drama when Athos sees...”

His own eyes had slid shut before he finished his sentence. He never heard the clunk of the empty jug as it slipped from his hand to the floor.


	8. A Professional Arrives On The Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short Chapter. Short Temper. Tsk, Athos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For the musical muses that attend each of them in this chapter, info is in the end notes.

### A Professional Arrives On The Scene

One could never accuse Athos - Treville’s noble-born lieutenant of King Louis XIII’s proud Musketeers - of walking with a ‘spring’ in his step. That sort of gait would be far too ordinary, much too coarse, and frankly, way too exuberant.

Today, not hampered by his usual night of drink and despair and disdain, Athos’ stride was business-like and imperial. It revealed a tad more of his aristocratic bearing than he was inclined to display in public when not in the active service of his King.

d’Artagnan lagged a few steps behind on the cobblestone street, struggling to keep up with this unusual, unexpected version of the older musketeer. When Athos had shown up on the doorstep this morning, early and startlingly sober, he had unceremoniously loaded d’Artagnan’s arms with Aramis’ uniform leathers, Aramis’ weapons belt and Aramis’ pauldron.

With his typical economy of words, he had primly ordered the young musketeer recruit to follow him to the garrison. There was no time for the young man to argue - or finish his breakfast - because Athos took off at a fairly determined pace, fully expecting that the new recruit would be following him in the manner of a manservant.

In the brief time d’Artagnan had known the man, he had observed Athos to be a right proper aristo - even when wrapped in a mist of crapulence. A most remarkable and admirable trait in d’Artagnan’s mind.

So, he stumbled along, wrestling with his armload without complaint, this morning. Truth be told, he was excited to see what manner of theatre would present itself today among The Three Inseparables. Last night had ended too swiftly, in his estimation. He was certain there were more hijinks to be had.

******* ***** ***** *******

By the third time Athos knocked on the locked door to Porthos’ rooms, d’Artagnan decided that it might be wise to step back a few steps. When he could still see the shade of red coloring Athos’ handsome visage deepen with each unanswered knock, he decided to retreat all the way back to the stairway. A safer distance, he reckoned.

He regretted that distance, though, when the door opened slightly with an excruciating squeal of wood and hinges. Then he heard Porthos’ husky groan.

“Mother o’ God! Stop pounding on my door! Can’t ya see that I am grievously indisposed?”

d’Artagnan watched as Athos’ shocked gaze dropped low, as if looking at something just beyond his feet. 

d’Artagnan rushed forward as he saw Athos thrust the door open and step with authority over a moaning, tormented body writhing sluggishly on the floor. “Porthos!” d’Artagnan whispered down at the prone figure as he stepped into the man’s room. “What has happen- ?”

His question was left to hang unanswered in the air when he heard: “ **WHAT** \- in the name of God and all who are holy in heaven - happened here?” Athos’ voice was forced, as if he had been unable to draw in enough breath to properly speak between clenched teeth.

“Ah! Good! You, too, have noticed how that prissy bastard managed to take up my whole bed, eh?” Porthos growled as he gingerly worked himself to his feet, entirely missing the implications in Athos’ very pointed question in his struggle to ignore the thrumming his own deep voice set off in his head. “I spent most o’ the night sleepin’ on the floor, for chrissakes!”

“What I have _noticed_ , Porthos, is that our brother Aramis - the leading light of Treville’s _mission du jour_ , who is due, incidentally _,_ in the captain’s office just minutes from now - is dead to the world and reeking of booze!”

Porthos blinked at the irate older musketeer, looking as if the man were speaking in tongues.

He scratched sleepily at the mat of dark curled hairs on his chest and yawned as he looked beyond Athos to the tangle of blankets and body in his bed. “Huh,” he muttered. “I think we musta forgot ‘bout that ‘bout half-way through the jug.”

Athos squeezed his temples fiercely with the heels of his hands. “Why, oh why, didn’t I just go straight to my wine bottle last night?”

Porthos felt, for some reason, that Athos’ very rhetorical question had invited a response. “ ‘Cuz ya had t’ save our alley cat, o’ course.” He waved one big hand toward his bed, as if Athos perhaps hadn’t noticed the wretched figure laying there.

“When he returns to his senses, perhaps days from _today_ \- the day which Treville expects to see him - he may have to lean heavily on his love for you to forgive you for this.”

“ **HIM**? Forgive **ME**?” Porthos squawked in an impossibly high note that made his own head hurt and eyes water. “What about EVERYONE apologizing to me!”

“How did I become part of this?” D’Artagnan protested.

“ **Be quiet!** ” The other two roared simultaneously, turning on him.

A moan from the bedroom silenced them all.

When Athos raised his eyes very slowly to meet Porthos’ bleary ones, they were filled with frustration and impatience. Porthos, however, merely took the glare as a signal that Athos might not have quite correctly remembered how the events of the previous evening had played out.

Athos simply lifted his chin, tightened his jaw, and spun on his heel to march into the bedroom.

d’Artagnan moved himself to the door and was peering into the room with undisguised delight. “What manner of liquor could even cause that kind of damage?” he chortled.

Porthos straightened and gave him a toothy, uneven grin that signaled the big man was still suffering the effects of an over-indulgence of alcohol. “Damage? Naaaah, Aramis is fine, not damaged. If y’re not familiar with the drink that finally put him to sleep, then maybe that’s why ya can’t grow a proper beard on that peach-fuzz face o’ yers!”

“Can we put aside d’Artagnan’s grooming shortcomings right now?” Athos shouted as he paced like a high-strung thoroughbred around Porthos’ bed and the still senseless Aramis. “This miserable creature in your bed is your creation, Porthos. Since you are the progenitor of this malicious mischief, you will help him get washed, dressed and ready to present himself before Captain Treville within ten minutes...”

“I’m a pro-geni-what-what? Of what-what now?” Porthos squawked, grabbing his still-tender head. “Ten minutes t’ move that lump from my bed? The hell ya say! It’ll take me that long t’ figure out where my own boots are!”

“Perhaps I should send for Treville so that _he_ might help you look for them?” Athos’ question was heated enough to produce the devastatingly sober frown from his bigger brother-in-arms.

While they argued, d’Artagnan rubbed self-consciously at his beardless chin. He had been with these guys long enough to know that any commentary from him would not be welcome at the moment.

“I must have been out of my mind to think I could leave the two of you alone,” Athos was hissing.

d’Artagnan’s head swiveled to the bedroom door when he heard a muffled, drawn-out, anguishedwhine. He supressed a smile.

This was going to be another interesting day with the three musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Athos theme): “Professional” by Ricardo Drue  
> (Porthos): “Rumedy” by Pupa Leendi   
> (Aramis): “Calling In Sick” by King Bubba  
> *Song was appropriate to story, video was not


	9. Treville and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

 

There was hardly a moment in Captain Jean d’Treville’s tenure as the commander of King Louis XIII’s elite squadron of soldiers that he didn’t comport himself with military bearing. At this moment, though, having gotten yet another dressing down from Cardinal Richelieu because he hadn’t produced a comprehensive report of the disastrous culmination of the cardinal’s most recent game of intrigue, he was in no mood to be anything but deeply perplexed.

He had no report, and he had no soldier. Aramis had not shown himself at the appointed hour, and he was left to utter excuses and outright lies as he escorted the angry prime minister to the gilded carriage that awaited in the garrison’s formal courtyard.

As he approached the grand staircase leading to his offices, he saw the young musketeer recruit, d’Artagnan. He was seated at the bottom step, alone, and playing absently with his rapier. Treville saw him look up at the steady click of the captain’s boot heels on the marble floors as he approached.

Treville did not slow his pace to offer pleasantries as he strode toward the stairs. If there was one of these rascals here, then there must be more of them about. Somewhere.

He glanced at the new recruit, who was staring open-mouthed at him in a kind of mixed fear and horror. Nodding upward toward his office, he merely growled, “One?”

The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his slender throat like he had swallowed a rock. He shook his head vigorously, seemingly incapable of speech.

Not a good portent, Treville surmised. He dropped one eyebrow, and it naturally began knitting itself to its other half in consternation.

The musketeer captain noted the new recruit was hedging back a half-step. Good. _Train ‘em young to respect The Fear, Jean. Unlike those other..._

He paused, still looking up at his office doors.“So, two?”

d’Artagnan was still shaking his head, eyes widening a bit this time. One more prudent half-step back.

Treville lowered his head like a stalking wolf, face flushing as he went back up the marble staircase for the second damn time this morning.

“The _Three_ , then,” he growled.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

In his office, Treville circled three figures assembled before his desk once and then took his seat at his desk - for the second time that morning.

“I had only expected ONE of you at this debriefing.” He pointed over his shoulder to a clock on the shelf behind him and cast a dark, accusatory look at Athos. “As I recall, it was a debriefing with Aramis that should have happened well over two hours ago.”

“Pretty sure that was never gonna happen...”

Treville cast a gonad-freezing glare at the man who had just dared utter that comment. Porthos added a sheepish “Sir” to his unfortunate remark.

“Since you all seemed determined to make this debriefing into a more public forum, I must ask why is d’Artagnan relegated to the stairs below?”

Athos cleared his throat and cast a warning look at Porthos before he spoke. “I didn’t think he should be subjected to - ”

“He wanted to come in with us,” Porthos happily blurted out in spite of the warning in the form of Athos’ stiffened body language.

“So?” Treville drawled, aware of Athos’ barely-dignified squirming.

“I told him there was no need to add to the circus, sir,” Athos interjected before Porthos could say anything that they might all regret.

Wasted effort. Porthos’ laughing reply landed like a rock on glass.“Begged us, though, di’n’t he?”

Treville arched his eyebrows at Porthos’ odd chortle. The big musketeer’sgrin was impossibly wide - not dimmed at all by its aura of inappropriateness in the moment. And was he wavering slightly on his feet?

“Said he’d pay to see this!” More laughter.

The grin flattened quickly though when Porthos realized no one else was laughing, and his eyes met his captain’s somber visage.

Taking a deep breath meant to broadcast his aggravation, the musketeer captain took an overly-long moment to look over each of the three soldiers before him. Porthos and Athos were standing at attention on either side of the forlorn figure of Aramis, who was seated directly in front of Treville. Apparently, they meant to prop their comrade up to resemble something vaguely resembling military decorum in the presence of their commander.

Odd choice, considering their overall appearance this morning.

Porthos looked as if he had packed three weekends of boozing and brawling into one short evening. 

Aramis was as sickly looking as he had ever seen the man - and he had personally been through several wars with the soldier. In fact, his soldier was so colorless and miserable looking that Treville felt he could be forgiven for assuming the disheveled creature before him was alien. A captured changeling, perhaps? Surely something had been substituted for his spy, the one whom he had expected for this debriefing.

Remarkably, Athos was the clear-eyed, vibrant one of the trio.

 _What world_ , Treville wondered, _have I woken up in today?_

Did they honestly think their sudden display of reverence for the office of the musketeer commander would somehow change the fact that Aramis had arrived two hours and four bloody minutes late?

“Sir, m-my apologies. I am greatly... a-afflicted this morning.” The weak, shaky voice came from the single seated figure in front of his desk. 

Treville straightened in his chair, clasped his hands on the desktop before him and leaned far forward to peer closely at his ailing musketeer.

The man was the picture of misery. His pretty-boy looks were nearly lost in dark-circled eyes, pale skin covered in a sheen of cold sweat, and his famous dark curling hair plastered wetly to his head and neck. Even his normally meticulously groomed beard suffered from discolored flecks of... who-knew-what.

He was, at least, dressed in his musketeer uniform, even though the skewed angle of his pauldron and the suggestion of a shirt missing from under his haphazardly buttoned doublet seemed to hint there had been some issues with getting everything properly in place.

Curiously, he was unarmed.

His weapons belt appeared to be in Porthos’s white-knuckled grip. Another sign that the overall effort to bring Aramis successfully to this appointment may have been fraught with untold problems.

Treville raised a questioning look from the weapons to the big man but said nothing. Perhaps he should not want details regarding how the last couple of hours had been spent between these three.

Aramis was in far worse shape than he had left him the night before following the end of the disastrous duchess affair... ehm... _spy mission_.

Treville looked suspiciously from Athos to Porthos. Both men were at full attention and deliberately not making eye contact now. Each, however, had one hand held lightly on their brother’s shoulders in an effort to keep him upright and aligned before their captain.

“You, Aramis, seem not so much ‘afflicted’ this morning as ‘drunk off your ass’ this morning,” Treville said firmly, turning back to the man directly in front of him.

Aramis cringed a bit and mumbled sorrowfully, “Sir, yes, sir.” With bloodshot eyes that were wide with desperate sincerity, he was quick to add in an almost inaudible whine, “I was poisoned, sir.” 

His soldier was having a hard time keeping his eyes focused, Treville noticed. Under different circumstances, the musketeer captain might have found it comical. Today, he needed the soldier-spy that Aramis had been yesterday. The cardinal was waiting, with promises made of a report - and a soldier - to be delivered within hours.

Now, clearly from the look of the man before him, Treville’s only option was would have to be a claim of _hors de combat_ on Aramis’ behalf. The captain frowned. He was anxious to get the duchess out of his hair. She had damn near killed one of his best soldiers! Hang her or exile her; he just wanted this business done.

He waved his hand impatiently at the two musketeers still standing stiffly at attention. “Stand down, gentlemen. Your unusual formality today is duly noted.You, in turn, may note that it is that same unusual formality that makes me suspicious of the lot of you.”

Athos was quick to step away. His air of annoyance was obvious as he chose to settle himself against the nearby window, his hip checked against the sill and arms crossed over his chest.

Porthos looked relieved to abandon the stiff posture of attention. It had been hard to maintain in his current state. That much was very apparent.

Oblivious to the consequences of the captain’s command, Aramis, suddenly without the support of the other two, teetered dangerously on the edge of the chair.

“So! now you three are ‘ **all for one; one for all** ’ again?” Treville said. “I thought it was clear I had only needed to speak with one of you this morning. The greenish one. Sitting before me.”

As he was barking at his soldiers, Treville became aware that Aramis had begun slowly shrinking out of his eyesight over the edge of the desk - as if folding in on himself. Porthos, who had remained closer, out of duty or guilt, leaned down. Moving slowly - with a physically pained expression himself - he brought Aramis back up to a sitting position again with one broad hand pressed gently to the man’s chest.

“OwOwOwOwOw...OW!” Aramis complained with a spectacularly childish whine. He grimaced and poked an accusatory finger up at Porthos’ face. “‘Twas you poisoned me!” he croaked.

Porthos’ eyes were squeezed shut as he carefully straightened. He opened his eyes to look for Athos, to plead silently for him to speak to their captain’s comments.

Usually, Athos was the first to speak up for the group. His seniority and aristocratic pedigree aside, he was often the least problematic and most dependably rational of the three - now four - favored musketeers in the regiment.

His reluctance to speak now was odd, Treville thought as he watched Porthos and Athos exchange challenging looks again.

“Aramis could not have made it here under his own power, captain.” Athos finally offered a frosty reply.

“That much is painfully evident, Athos. I’m neither blind nor deaf, thank you,” Treville said with a dangerous flare of his nostrils, signaling that he had expected much finer detail in his soldier’s response.

Porthos tried to be helpful, suggesting, “We’re late because he had injuries to be attended to at... at the infirmary?”

The glare from Treville signaled the man’s report was also woefully lacking in specifics - and, most likely, veracity.

“I see. Shall I insist that you two leave Aramis here with me - and then the cardinal - so that he may tell me the reason?”

“NO!” The answer came in unison, but Porthos blurted out. “He ain’t got no fuckin’ idea ‘bout what happened to him, Captain! I doubt he even knows his name at this point.”

In a surprising moment of lucidness, Aramis lifted his head to object. “I do so!” His sudden movement caused him to list heavily to the side, though, his head bumping awkwardly to rest on Porthos’ thigh.

“Kittykittykitty,” he muttered as his eyes slid shut.

So much for the lucid moment, thought Treville. Surely he hadn’t heard the man correctly. “What did he say?” he asked of the other two.

“Nothin’! He’s been driftin’ in ‘n’ out like that for hours. Means nothin’ t’ us,” Porthos piped up as he prodded his drowsy brother away from his leg.

“Why is he only half-dressed? And why are you carrying his weapons?”

Treville saw the panicked look the big man threw toward his noble, blue-eyed brother. Athos, for his part, merely gave him a tight smile and an offhand salute that signaled that he, too, would be interested in Porthos’ response to their captain’s question.

“He... Uh... He was havin’ difficulties. You know. Remainin’ standin’, I mean. Upright. On his own two feet. So I -that is, _WE_ helped our brother to get here this mornin’,”Porthos stammered. Then he waved the weapons belt weakly (which startled Aramis, nearly unseating himself beside the big man) as he continued with his explanation. “He didn’t need this extra weight toyin’ with his - uhm -fragile sense o’ balance right now, so...” His voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

Treville leaned back in his chair. “The Triad of Deviltry,” he said with a sage nod of his head. 

“Pardon?” Arthos coughed, bringing himself out of his slouch at the office window and drawing himself up to his full aristocratic height. He was beginning to show signs of impatience with being identified as complicit in the shenanigans of this morning.

“‘Triad of Deviltry’,” Treville repeated. “It’s what the Cardinal calls you three. Most days, I’m secretly delighted to hear him bang on with his complaints about you lot. That’s off-the-record, by the way. But today, when I need Aramis with his full wits about him, he sits here before me - ” He waved sharply in Aramis’ direction, a gesture of profound frustration. “ - with barely half of them!”

His eyes snapped to Porthos when he heard a muffled giggle.

“Did I say something, funny, soldier?”

“N-no, captain!” Porthos started in earnest.

Treville glared, letting his silence suggest to Porthos that he needed to elaborate or remain silent at his peril.

“I-It’s jus’... Well, it sounded like you jus’ implied Aramis is a...”

Suddenly, Athos was biting his lower lip in an effort to hold back his own laughter. Aramis was looking woozily between them.

“Spit it out, soldier!” Treville barked.

Porthos squirmed. “Well, it was as if you said that without his full wits, he’s a... I mean, it’s as if ya _implied_ he’s a...”Porthos couldn’t finish.

A mere glance at Athos struggling to hide a smile ignited the whoop of laughter the big musketeer had been trying to suppress, startling poor Aramis again.

Treville looked to his second-in-command for a clearer explanation.

Athos cleared his throat. Aramis’ eyes were on him now, too. “I think what Porthos means to say is HE believes your wording, sir, implies that Aramis is a half-wit.”

There. It was said. And with a straight face, too. Athos inwardly congratulated himself on his self control, despite being so damnably sober this morning.

Aramis frowned.

Porthos’ whooping laughter returned with a vengeance.

Athos struggled against joining in, one corner of his lower lip bitten white between his teeth.

Treville would not - could not - laugh as long as Aramis looked so very confused by the joke.

Nor would he sanction this monkey business.

“Stop it, Porthos!” he ordered with a commanding shake of his finger at the big man. “Aramis has been through enough, don’t you think?”

That seemed to sober Porthos up.

However, half-witted or not, Aramis was becoming more concerned as he continued to work out the conversation in his rum-addled brain.

“How did it happen, gentlemen, that I gave you a tired, but _sober,_ soldier - a man who had just escaped death at the hands of a crazy woman to complete a mission in the service of King and Country - and less than twelve hours later I have before me a...”

Damn their constant joking about! Now the only descriptive that would come to mind was...

Aramis was frowning at him now.

Dammit! 

“A...” Treville faltered, then soldiered on with his tirade. “A sickly, weak shadow of the man he was!” 

Aramis became alarmed by this new description of himself. Suddenly, his commanding officer seemed to be describing someone who may not live to see the end of the day? This was a perplexing turn of events. Certainly, he had felt like he was going to die every time the nausea overtook him this morning. Did Treville know something about Porthos’ damnable rum that he did not?

“Aramis is not a drinker!” he heard Treville bellowing. He winced at the ringing it produced in his ears. “How in the hell did he get into such a state, boys?”

Athos crossed his arms over his chest and stared fixedly at Porthos.

Porthos dropped his eyes and began to fidget awkwardly with Aramis’ weapon belt.

If blame was going to be assigned, it was clear Athos was not disposed to shoulder any of it. “I swear to you, captain, they were both stone cold sober when d’Artagnan and I left them together last night,” said Athos.

Which, of course, prompted a howling argument from Porthos.


	10. Archcats and Alley-Angels

**The ‘little abbé-cat’ Rises. Briefly.**

As his brothers-in-arms bickered and dissembled, Aramis moaned and leaned forward in his chair. He was holding his head and casting his bloodshot eyes miserably around the office. He was wincing as, above him, Athos roared his protestations and Porthos fired back with protests of his own.

Without a word, and seemingly without even glancing in the man’s direction, Treville kicked a bucket toward the stricken musketeer. He had been a captain and a soldier for most of his life; he bloody well recognized a man’s fight - in the midst of a battle - against a surging tide of vomit when he saw it.

The bucket skidded to a precise and timely stop at Aramis’ feet. The man threw himself forward over it, upchucking violently as Athos and Porthos exchanged regretful glances over his heaving back.

Treville sighed. There was little sense in attempting a debriefing of the one musketeer whose undercover assignment had taken a disastrous turn early yesterday evening. Not while said soldier was bent over a bucket of his own vomit. Treville rested his chin on one open hand as he listened patiently to the arguing of two of his soldiers.

Their rising voices couldn’t quite overwhelm the sounds of his other soldier’s alcohol-afflicted stomach trying to forcibly eject itself from the young man’s lean body.

He thought he had sent the man to a quiet and safe place last night to recover from his misadventure.

The captain overheard Athos’ decidedly non-aristocratic accusation, fired in a low growl at Porthos. “Goddammit, Porthos, now it’s time to confess! What did you give to him?”

“Rum! Jus’ rum!” Porthos croaked defensively, with a palms-up, helpless shrug of his shoulders. “Jus’ enough to get him t’ sleep, I swear it! Jus’ t’ stop his pacin’ an’ frettin’! He was near dead on his feet!”

“Oh? And you brilliantly thought you just might bring him ‘round to completely dead?”

Aramis rocked forward over the bucket again, gagging and spitting. His rebelling stomach was obviously empty. Treville knew this torment might hold him in its merciless grip for hours. Perhaps days. A timid tippler like Aramis, who was not known to indulge in drinking to such surprising excess, would likely suffer the full revenge inherent in cheap alcohol.

Treville looked back at his clock with mild annoyance. He’d love to have had enough time to have some pity on his soldier, but there were matters to be handled - and with all due haste. There were statements to be made. Reports to be filed. A duchess’ fate to decide. And a conspiracy to disrupt (thanks, in no small part, to the talents of the man on his hands and knees, coughing and gagging over a bucket of vomit in his commander’s office).

He watched the man before him try to draw himself back up onto his chair and accept one wet cloth from Porthos to wipe his face and accept another from Athos to press gingerly to the back of his neck for relief - all as the two older musketeers continued their verbal tussle.

“... And what about this ‘saucer of cream’ he’s been muttering about all morning? When, exactly, did you give him a bloody saucer of cream!” Athos was hissing.

“I didn’t! I bloody well did not! No Saucers! No cream! None! Why are you even lis’enin’ to ‘im right now? Ya can see he’s been outta his head! It was a joke! A li’l jibe. You know - like when I call him ‘alley cat’...”

Apparently, despite his sorry state, Aramis still had fight left in him.

Treville jumped in alarm when his stricken musketeer suddenly erupted with an unintelligible roar of what sounded like profanities and curses and took a vicious swing at Porthos as soon as the words ‘alley cat’ had left the big man’s mouth.

In view of the young man’s condition, Treville was astonished by his remarkably lightning-like reaction.

Also surprising, Porthos easily ducked the punch and moved with the grace of sober man to catch the upper-half of Aramis’ body before the force of his brother’s abortive swing had a chance to send him and his chair sailing backwards.

Alley cat? Treville wondered. What was that all about?

As he watched the three-ring circus unfolding in front of his desk - two of his finest soldiers were attempting to gather the near-boneless-like body of his third prize soldier and set him back onto his uprighted chair - Treville begin to think he may have to intervene in the interest of time.

And Aramis’ well-being.

He sighed inwardly as he looked over at Aramis. The man was hardly able to hold his head up, the last of his energy likely spent on the effort of his pathetic Porthos punch. Treville was sure the last thing the fellow needed now was a scolding and counseling session from an old warhorse like himself.

He did need to wring out a corroborating report from the man soon, though. The Cardinal would be expecting it.

Treville sighed inwardly. Perhaps the old Red Devil would have to suffer a wee bit of disappointment today. Aramis had admirably completed most of the mission over the last month. The final details of last night’s disastrous meet-up could wait a while. The fate of the duchess could wait as well.

It was apparent that it could be a long time before his soldier would emerge out of his peculiar drunken stupor.

The scene before him had some entertainment value, he supposed. He listened with heavily disguised amusement to Athos’ and Porthos’ accusatory wrangling over the bent, trembling body of their brother.

“Rum? RUM! Are you mad? From where? The demon distilleries of Diabolos?”

“No! From that wharf-rat Pernod - the one-eyed bastard with the loud mouth. Won it off him in a game at The Swan! Las’ week!”

Porthos looked inappropriately proud of that.

Athos looked superciliously aghast.

Aramis looked... Green. Just a sickly shade of ill-green.

“D-don’t. Don’t talk of - of r-ru...” Aramis’ pitiful mewl was cut short by another violent attack of nausea, pitching him forward again as Athos and Porthos argued over him.

“Look at him! He’s right! You _have_ poisoned him!”

“I didn’t! See here, Athos! We drank from the same bottle! I can’t help it if our pretty brother has the innards of a faintin’ school girl!”

“God <cough> God d-damn your bligh... <gag> blighted soul, P-Porthos du Vallon and - and your fu-fu-... <gag>Dammit! FUCKING! <cough> RUM! <gag>”

Treville thought he may have heard that surprising curse from the oft-pious Aramis with some degree of accuracy, but bowed over the bucket as the young man was, he could not testify to it.

Unwisely, Porthos, having taken offense at his stricken brother’s profanity-laced curse, dared to bend near to the younger man’s ear and huff, “Now _that_ bit o’ potty-mouth is gonna cost ya an extra hour in the confessional this weekend, ain’t it, my little _abbé-cat_?”

There was another garbled curse that followed close on the heels of Porthos’ deviling of him - something to do with alley cats and archangels.

Aramis rose up again - snarling like a wounded badger and wrapped his arms around Porthos’ neck. This time, the younger, leaner man was successful in taking them both over the chair and down to the floor.

Perhaps it was delirium, Treville mused, drumming his fingers impatiently on a neat stack of documents on the desk before him.

He felt some measure of sympathy for Aramis. The slighter musketeer made a noble - if somewhat insane - attempt at pinning down the mighty Porthos du Vallon. Sober or soused, Porthos could not be bested.

A sober Aramis would have known that.

The big man’s booming belly laugh could be felt in the floorboards as he pulled Aramis off him, like plucking lint off a fine garment, and handed him to Athos.

Athos, in turn, simply held the still-snarling spit-fire while trying to play the diplomat - alternately trying to calm Aramis and scolding Porthos for teasing him into such a state.

Delirium, Definitely delirium.

The man thinks he’s fighting cats and angels? Where does one get a notion like that if not at the bottom of a bottle of rum, Treville wondered as he watched Aramis continue to kick and swing uselessly at his grinning big brother.

Why would anyone drink that swill? They live in France, for God’s sake! Allowing rum to be sold and consumed here should be considered an offense against the state!

If time allowed, he should perhaps have poor Aramis admitted to the infirmary before his tormented body turned itself inside out.

Treville glanced at the clock again. Porthos and Athos were arguing almost nose-to-nose over Aramis now. Their brother was seated again - precariously - clearly wrung out, exhausted, not even aware as they snapped at each other like rabid dogs above him.

“He told me that ya were executin’ Greeks! So! Wha’s that all about, brother?” Porthos was snarling an odd, alarming accusation at a profoundly confused Athos.

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” rejoined Athos, throwing his hands in exasperation. “That’s it! I’m done! I’m far too sober to participate in this.”

Treville was certain he could actually hear the noble musketeer’s last bit of patience snap like a mighty tree in a windstorm. Watching them, it occurred to Treville that every damned one of this trio probably had a hangover of one kind or another.

This debriefing was an utter failure. Time to cut his losses.

He reached for a key hanging on a length of red velvet braid at the edge of his desk. Rising from his chair, still listening to the bickering of Athos and Porthos and the renewed retching from the wretchedly abused Aramis, he walked to an ornately carved and polished mahogany cabinet.

As he turned the key, he heard Athos and Porthos go blissfully quiet.

Turning back to his soldiers, he placed an expensive cut-crystal decanter of ruby-red liquor on his desk.

Treville’s most-excellent brandy.

“Gentlemen,” he said as he seated himself again, cleared his desktop, and poured out four glasses of brandy. “Let us discuss the ‘hair of the dog that bit you’ stratagem.”

Athos smiled in appreciation; Porthos, in relief and gratitude.

There was a soft thud, a sound like an unfolded blanket slipping to the floor.

“Uhm...” Athos was looking down at his feet. “I don’t think your secret agent will be able to stand for the toast, captain.”

Porthos threw his hands heavenward. Looking over at his one brother still remaining upright, he grumbled. “Oi! Isn’t he startin’ to bother ya yet?”

Captain Jean d’Treville raised his glass. “Then you’d best call d’Artagnan in, gentlemen. He’s been listening at the door since this free-for-all began and there is one glass left here in search of a soldier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, of course, two musical muses have attached appropriate songs to Porthos and Aramis with devastating accuracy:
> 
> (Porthos): “Rum Make Me Shame” by Vibesdaddy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yfz2mJnq6xI  
> (Aramis): “Drinker’s Prayer” by Peter Humphrey https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vPp8VG7MHA  
> (For d’Artagnan, ‘cuz he should have one) “Bottle Ah Rum” by Umi Marcano


	11. The Epic Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is: the last piece of chocolate in the box...

******Four (very dry) Days Later**

Aramis rapped a short, light-hearted beat on the closed door to Porthos’ garrison rooms. Leaning forward, he listened carefully for telltale signs of life on the other side of the door. A groan and the intriguing sound of sloshing water lit a smile on the musketeer’s face and sparked a glint of mischief.

He waited until he heard the predictable growl, “Go away!”

Truly a signal to open the door and invite oneself in, if he ever heard one.

Lit by lanterns and a low fire in the grate against the early evening gloom, the room was warm and steamy. The smell of stable muck and sweat warred with the scent of soap, water and clean linens. Porthos lay submerged to the top of his broad shoulders in an over-large wooden tub filled with hot water. A sopping wet cloth was draped over his face and head.

He made no move to acknowledge his visitor.

“Friend Porthos! It’s been four days since last we saw each other! Have you missed me, brother?”

“Hmph! Let me think...” 

One mighty, dark-fleshed hand rose out of the hot bath, and the big man began to count his complaints off on wet fingers. “My birthday was ruined; I endured the company of a whiny, uninvited houseguest; I’m still sufferin’ from a murderin’hangover; and - jus’ t’ round out my misery - I’m sore and bone-weary after draggin’ my way through four days of Treville’s disciplinary sentence: muckin’ out the stables. So, no. Can’t say as I’ve had much time or inclination to give yer absence any thought.”

When Aramis dropped his hat and a heavy leather bag noisily onto the nearby table, Porthos lifted a corner of the sopping wet cloth he had resting over his face to cast a critical eye over his visitor.

“But here ya are. In my rooms again. Lookin’ as lovely ’n’ smellin’ as fresh as a jus’-plucked rose. How’d ya manage to look so clear-eyed and shiny-new after that epic drunk, ya good-lookin’ hellcat?

“It’s miraculous, isn’t it?” Aramis said, flashing an impish, yet still brilliant, smile. “Good living in the eyes of our Lord God, I suppose,” he added amiably. “Being poisoned with rum by well-meaning friends, notwithstanding.”

“C’mere, ya unholy terror. Bring that perky attitude of yers just a mite closer so I can adjust it for ya.”

“No, no, mon cher. Thank you for the offer, though. That is most thoughtful of you, but I believe I am quite content with the level of what you term perkiness in my attitude right now. And for some reason, I feel safer at this distance,” Aramis said brightly, taking note of the devilish glint in Porthos’ dark eyes. “I’ve been sent to hurry you along. Our brother Athos awaits our presence at the Ruddy Duck Inn.”

“Oh, he ‘awaits’, does he? Seems t’ me I’ve had an awful lot of people orderin’ me about - includin’ our noble brother - since yer arse got dropped on my doorstep a few days ago. So, go away! I’m enjoyin’ my bath. Tell him that. If he wants an audience wi’ me ’n’ ya can get him here before this water cools, I’ll let him wash my back.”

Aramis grinned. “Hmm, yes - a delightful image. Almost worth Athos pummeling me when I deliver that delightful response to him. Begging your pardon, but I don’t think I will pass that along to Athos. I’m sure you are enjoying yourself, though. Hot bath water and a wash tub of your very own in your quarters? Such pampering! Serge loves you truly, big man.”

“Aye! That he does! I’ll lay odds he loves me more than he loves you.” Porthos shrugged with a coyness that he knew would irritate Aramis. Their rivalry for the favor of the garrison’s old cook and caretaker was long-standing. “He has sympathized with my predicament these last four days, bless his old bones.”

“Perhaps his love does not extend far enough to have sent you a manservant to clean up after you?” Aramis countered, holding his nose as he bent to pick up soiled and discarded clothing from the floor. “It’s a bit rank in here, don’t you think?”

“Who needs a manservant, when I have you, apparently. Be sure to pick everything up, eh? Serge has my ‘rank’ laundry picked up every eve, and returned - as sweet smellin’ as me - by morning. As ya said, the ol’ man loves me.”

Wrinkling his nose at the inescapable smell of sweat, dust and equine manure, Aramis began to build a laundry pile by the door and far away from the open window where any errant breeze might push the noxious stable smells through the rooms. He ignored Porthos’ taunt; he would not let Porthos win this round in their shameless little competition for the old garrison cook’s affections.

“I, too, have benefitted from the dear man’s attentions during these minor inconveniences you and I have been subjected to recently.”

“Let’s not compare our ‘minor inconveniences’, as ya call them.”

“Be fair, brother. I was not spared punishments! Treville had me confined to quarters!”

“Recuperatin’ from yer sissy drinkin’ afflictions, I heard.”

“Nevertheless...” Aramis swept his hand through the air to lightly dismiss the insult.“I was most grateful that Serge brought meals to me during those torturous two days. Of course - it’s true that I was unable to keep anything on my stomach throughout that first day, thanks to you and your choice of ‘treatment’ for my pains, so Serge was very kind and considerate. You must admit, though, we each have been blessed, have we not?We both have been able to breathe the fresh air of freedom instead of serving out our sentences in the stockades.”

“Blessed,” Porthos growled. He reached over the tub’s edge to pick up one stained, smelly boot and shook it at Aramis. “Let’s also not discuss what you are calling our fortunate access to fresh air. Doesn’t smell like freedom to me, pretty man. It’s been four days of stable muck-outs for me while you enjoyed two days of catered meals and bed rest - and then? - two days of being paraded around the palace like a recently discovered religious relic offered up to the Cardinal.”

Aramis simply sighed and tossed a too-fragrant pair of breeches over Porthos’ head, landing it perfectly on top of the growing pile by the door.

Porthos sank lower into the warm water of his washtub, grumbling. “If the smell in here offends ya so much, maybe you should acclimate yer fine nose by finishing up the rest of the muck-out of the stables. Consider it your fair share of the punishment for my bein’ so well-meanin’ toward ya the other night.”

“Be understanding, brother. Think of Treville’s predicament! He had to mete out some punishment, after all, if only to placate the cardinal. Richelieu was not happy about the delay in getting that last report from me. Treville’s disciplinary measures for you and me were almost Solomon-like in their implementation.”

Porthos’ face screwed up as if he had just heard a particularly discordant note.

“Are we thinkin’ of the same Solomon-fella here? That king-fella from the Bible? The one with the baby-killin’ notion that always seems to be praised as a sign of his wisdom and fairness, right? ‘Cuz all I know about Captain Solomon Treville is he nailed you with a ‘vicious’ two days of confinement - which, around the garrison, has been widely regarded as ‘R&R’ - and I got clipped for taking care of YOU, ya handsome weasel, ’n’ ended up bein’ sent to the stables for the week!”

“I think what we might actually differ on is what ’taking care of ‘ me constituted that night, big man. In any case, that’s water - or, more accurately, rum - under the bridge, yes? Take heart! It’s almost over. Just one more day of this smell of manure clinging to you like a cold, wet hair-shirt. Possibly one more week needed for your muscles to recover from your forced workout. And at least one more month of you begging me for my forgiveness! You can get through this, my friend! I have the utmost faith in you.”

Aramis’ smile was sweet as he seated himself at the table, making sure he was still just outside of Porthos’ reach and that his path to the exit was clear if he needed to move quickly.

Porthos growled again. He would like to tackle his attractive, squeaky-clean, pleasant-smelling hector, but the pain and effort involved made his head hurt to even ponder it.

“A few days o’ you smelling like horse shit would wipe that prissy smile off yer face, mon cher.”

Aramis shook his head. “Never fear - I had my time in the penalty box as well. I’m still trying to get the stench of sulphur and brimstone out of my nose, dear brother. Remember, I had to spend these past two days behind closed doors - closeted with Old Scratch’s anointed representative here on earth, the Cardinal himself.”

Aramis gave an overly-dramatic shudder.

The big musketeer snorted. “Two days! Phfft! Yer a poor posh baby, ain’t ya?”

“You, my friend, are having an attack of envy! Shame on you. Be fair. Think on how difficult all this has been for me! I was ill for two days thanks to your loving ministrations that fateful night. Your rum made me one very sick secret agent!” Aramis affected an adorable, if not quite sincere, pout.“Richelieu was nipping at Treville like a mad dog that whole time, demanding my report. But let’s not dwell on such unpleasantness tonight. Let’s move on to a subject more to your liking: presents for you!”

Picking his leather bag up from the table, he rose to move toward the cupboards on the other side of the room, mindful of keeping an appropriately safe distance from the occupied washtub.

He opened the leather bag and began filling Porthos’ empty pantry shelves with wax-sealed jars, bottles and a variety of carefully tied and sorted packets. “There! All stocked up, big man.”

He stepped back to admire his handiwork for a moment. “Now, now - no need to thank me.” He swept his hand over the neat array. “Salves, teas, and tinctures. To keep you safe, sound and healthy.”

Porthos grinned at the site, but hid his smile quickly when Aramis glanced over his shoulder at him. He assumed a mild glower, intent on denying the other musketeer the smallest hint of gratitude or satisfaction.

Aramis simply shrugged and then suddenly brightened.“Oh! I almost forgot...”

He reached again into the leather bag and pulled out a beautiful bottle, shaped like a drop of jet black, set on a circlet of gold, adorned with a fine goldleaf seal and a blood red wax insignia pressed onto it. “A bonus for my travails at the palace! Spirited away from underneath the pinched nose of the cardinal. A fine aged Portuguese port, which I believe is illegal to possess in France right now given the current hostile political climate. However, as we all know, God always smiles on our dear prime minister and his privileges in war, does He not?”

“Except when God is smiling on you and your little acts of thievery, I suppose.”

Aramis gracefully spun around and gave Porthos a deep bow. “God smiled on my thievery because He doesn’t want an excellent port wasted on the tongue of that wrinkled old devil.”

Tilting the bottle once at Porthos in warning, he then hid it deep within the cupboard and closed the doors. “Remember, my brother: Break that bottle open only in case of emergency.”

“Yer emergencies, ya mean.”

Aramis ignored him, continuing his chatter as he picked up more discarded clothing and swept his hand over dusty shelves.

“By the by, did you know that the Cardinal keeps a generous supply of sugar plums on his desk? Oh! And bowls of sweet oranges from Valencia. And how happy was he to offer them to me! Free for the taking! No glaring, no hissing from his forked tongue. Just lots of very, very content, oily-looking smiles as I provided him with the all the last of the details for his game of intrigue.”

Porthos’ eyebrows shot up. “ALL the details?”

“Well. Perhaps not _every_ single detail.” Aramis gave Porthos a sly wink. “However, even as he played the gracious and grateful host, he still was full of his usual trickery.

“For instance, did you know his Eminence keeps that fifty year old Portugese port I brought to you hidden away selfishly from visitors like the captain and myself? He is a most disgraceful man. On the plus side, he did not offer us a drop of rum! Thank God for small favors, eh, brother? I might have given him some credit for that had he not tried to foist on us a watered-down white wine that the old bastard tried to pass off as a Pouilly-Fumé. For that sin alone, the man should be driven from the Court in shame.”

Aramis swiped at his tongue, as if trying to purge the memory of the wine’s taste from his mouth.

“Sugar plums! Sweet oranges! Pissy faux Puilly-Fumé? Was he gettin’ a spy report, or was he seducing ya, for chrissakes?” Porthos snickered. He splashed a puckish handful of soapy water toward Aramis, but the younger man gleefully sidestepped it. “I’ll bet the louche ol’ louse just wanted to trap ya in a confessional and mete out a right proper punishment of his own on ya. Maybe he wanted ya to re-enact that bondage bit o’ yers.”

Porthos waggled his eyebrows at the indelicate suggestion, causing Aramis to piously make the sign of the cross over himself.

“Tsk! Not with Treville hovering over me, hawk-eyed and annoyed the whole time. Our good captain has been extraordinarily protective. He had frequently intervened on my behalf at the palace over the past few days. It is his position that I have...”

Aramis paused to lay his hand over his heart and roll his eyes reverently heavenward.

“How did he say it? Oh, right... ‘Aramis has been steadfast and faithful in his service to the Crown throughout the last assignment, immersed as he has been in this horrendous matter, and he has suffered enough’.”Hand still on heart, he rolled his eyes down to his brother in arms, batting long, dark lashes, and smiled sweetly again.

“Hang on... By that ‘sufferin’ of yers, did he mean all the vintage wines, candle-lit dinners, upper-class carriage rides, feather beds and free sex?”

“Again, brother: Tsk!” Aramis wagged a finger at Porthos. “Sex is never, ever, truly free.”

“Such wisdom! Musta been a hard lesson for ya, pretty man.”

Aramis laughed. “It is a lesson that I am eager to frequently re-learn, that much is true.”

“Did the ol’ red bastard find ya another assignment that’s going to have ya beddin’ down another noblewoman with a taste for tyin’ up young lovers and murderin’ old husbands?”

“No. He’s too busy cleaning up the mess left by the duchess. Treville is helping him concoct a suitable story that explains the murders and the lady’s murderous madness and keeps my name out of the Parisian rumor mill. The duchess won’t even be tried. Luckily for her, because of all the useful information she has passed along to me these last several months, she will get to keep her head, but not the riches she hoped and schemed for. In exchange for her life and a carriage ride out of the country, she will have to pledge her heartfelt fealty to King Louis. As a token of her newly-resolved love for the King and France, she is also required to pledge her late husband’s estate and all monies associated with it to the Royal Purse.”

“Oi! Too bad ya didn’t get that token of love from the lady!”

“Perhaps. I will just have to settle for the love and gratitude of that withered old man, the cardinal, and of my beloved France. I will heal my sad heart in the anonymity ordained by my mission.”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Too bad. Ya coulda been a very famous secret agent!”

“I don’t believe the ideal for a secret agent is the pursuit of notoriety, brother.”

The big soapy water-bomb launched in his direction did not miss its mark this time.

Aramis jumped back with evident irritation, brushing peevishly at water spots that were now scattered over one leg and a side of his new burnished leather doublet. “Dammit, Porthos! That does it! Get your ass out of that tub and get dressed! Athos is waiting for us at the Ruddy Duck. Please note, I was given painfully explicit instructions and a very narrow window of time within which I was allowed to be on my own in order to fetch you and return as a pair to the tavern.”

“Allowed? ‘On yer own’? Whose orders are these?”

“Athos’, of course. He made me repeat them back to him - twice! - before letting me free to come here to retrieve you. He has no faith in our ability to comport ourselves in ‘anything resembling adult behavior when’ - you and I - ‘are left alone together for any lengthy period of time’. His words, not mine,” Aramis huffed as he looked about the room for a drying cloth that was clean.

Porthos grinned as he rose - dripping, clean and magnificently naked - from the washtub. “Adult behavior. Hah! Can’t mean me,” he taunted Aramis as he pushed past his friend to get to his bedroom with a snap of the last clean and dry cloth, possessed by him and aimed at Aramis.

“Dammit, big man! That hurt!”

“Are you going to sic yer guardian angel, Treville, on me?” Porthos bellowed with a laugh from the other room. “Don’t ya think I’ve ’suffered enough’ as well, brother?”

“Whatever.” Aramis grumbled as he rubbed at the stinging spot on his backside. “Don’t fault me for basking in the glow of Treville’s attentions for now. I am confident I will be out of his good graces in a predictably short period of time.”

“Hmm. Seems likely. Maybe tonight - at the Ruddy Duck!” Porthos called to him as he threw his used drying cloth out of the bedroom to land at Aramis’ feet.

“This won’t dry in time,” the younger musketeer complained loudly. “Now, we will have to appear before Athos with me sporting evidence of that very weird conviction of his that you and I are just a pair of overgrown children.”

He was still studying his grievously damp doublet and wet pantleg when Porthos returned, dressed handsomely in a black and silver studded doublet and black leather leggings and boots, ready for an evening out, the aches and pains of his stable duty already forgotten.

“And where is the young one? d’Artagnan?”

“Never fear! The lad has procured himself a ring-side seat at the Ruddy Duck. He’s fairly quivering with the excitement of observing yet another ludicrous attempt by Athos to bring us to heel. Odd boy, that one. You’d think all that he has seen of our combined hijinks and misadventures would have put him off this entire ‘I-wanna-be-a-musketeer-when-I-grow-up’ thing of his.”

Porthos slipped an arm lightly over Aramis’ shoulders, mindful of the man’s recent injuries, and pulled him close to place a noisy, sloppy kiss between the slipped ebony curls on his forehead. “That never dissuaded you, mon cher. d’Artagnan loves us. And Athos. And the hijinks. And the misadventures. He’ll be the greatest of us, just wait and see... That boy is France’s future as long as he steers clear of duchesses. And their adventurous beds.”

He reached for his hat and perched it on his head at a rakish angle. Then, he swept Aramis’ precious grey felt hat from the table, fussed with the showy feathers, and pulled it firmly over his brother’s head until it sat foolishly tilted and improperly low over his brow.

Sweeping his door open and bowing before Aramis, he chortled, “All ready to go, pretty man.”

Aramis prised his hat off his head and passed by the big musketeer warily.

“Tell ya what, monsieur kitty,“ Porthos said amiably as he closed his door, ignoring Aramis’ comically sour look when he heard the despised appellation. “On our way to the Ruddy Duck, let’s you and me revisit that discussion of yer comfort levels with restraints, bondage, satin tools-of-the-trade and the like. And possibly, the manner in which I may accommodate anytime ya feel the need to seek out these particular adventures again, yeah?”

“Why do I suddenly feel that you are going to make this evening about that missed birthday celebration and four days of mucking out stables? I’ll warn you now, Athos won’t let you do anything to m-”

“Athos, Athos, Athos! You let me worry ‘bout Athos.”

Porthos roughed the dark hair atop Aramis’ head, sending the carefully tended and tamed curls helter-skelter, as he confidently continued, “And if that fussy, tight-arsed owner of the Ruddy Duck doesn’t faint dead away upon our arrival, maybe I’ll get a chance to try out some new combat holds on ya t’night! I been imaginin’ our next training session ever since yer revealin’ admission the other night.”

The roar of the big musketeer’s laughter drowned the protestations of the annoyed other, echoing off the walls of the garrison hallway as they made their way out. “Yes, my brother, one night of rum and these days of muckin’ out stables gave me plenty of time to imagine all manner of holds I’m gonna get ya into!"

***** ***** ***** *****

d’Artagnan approached the table a bit breathless and flushed, handing Athos his new bottle of wine and seating himself so hurriedly that his own mug of ale rolled and sloshed as it hit the tabletop. Acknowledging Athos’ nod of appreciation but ignoring the look that seemed to ask ‘What took you so long?’. the young soldier settled in and cast about for Aramis and Porthos.

“Where have the other two gone?”

Athos tipped his chin toward the other side of the crowded room, where a small gathering was beginning to coalesce around two figures.

“Aramis is with Porthos - explaining to him the difference between a _sound_ argument and a _valid_ argument. It is going to end in a punch for one of them, I assure you.”

He focused on pouring just the right amount of wine into his very empty cup. “Everyone needs a hobby,” he mused. “Those two have each other.”

“And what is your hobby?” d’Artagnan inquired, genuinely curious.

“Well… I suppose my hobby is the pair of them.”

Having poured the precise amount of wine necessary to get him through the next few moments, Athos leaned back in his chair, full cup in hand, feet loosely crossed at the ankles, and stretched with a contented sigh.

A good wine in hand. The hum of a busy tavern. His brothers-in-arms nearby (and happily re-engaged in minor mischief). Athos was pleased that his world had returned to a comforting level of normal.

He watched with mild interest as brother Aramis shot to his feet, seemingly angry, turning his back on brother Porthos, arms crossed, his chiseled jaw setting like stone. Porthos for his part, remained sprawled with comic ease at a large table. From Athos’ point of view, it appeared their biggest brother was actively soliciting bets behind Aramis’ back from the gathering crowd. 

In the gloom of the tavern, it was difficult to tell if Aramis’ handsome face was colored with actual disdain, or if he and Porthos were yet again at play with another theatrical plot to separate fools from their gold.

He glanced at his young companion who was taking the same scene in with an innocent’s gullibility. Far be it from him to disabuse the boy of his notions about the brotherhood.

“In the course of their discussion, if you should hear Aramis hurl the term ’ _reducto ad absurdum_ ’ at Porthos - be sure to clear adequate space in the room and wager your coin on Porthos. Aramis has an unfortunate talent for dropping the red flag before the enraged bull that our beloved big brother can become after one hour of drinking and arguing.”

“You’d think Aramis would learn,” d’Artagnan sputtered in disbelief as he watched the action unfold.

Athos merely smiled and added, “It is a long-standing observation of mine that the man prefers Porthos’ punishments to the ones that might be meted out in the stuffy, unimaginative confessionals of Mother Church.”

“How did this standoff begin? I was only away from the table for minutes!” d’Artagnan exclaimed.(He did not know if it was prudent at this moment to mention the overly long ‘discussion’ he had had with the comely maiden who had taken him to the wine cellar to show him exactly where the wine was kept and who had offered him deep, deep ‘discounts’.)

Athos waved a hand toward the bickering pair as Porthos was seen to rise out of his chair and reach for their marksman brother. “It began over Porthos’ suggestion that he demonstrate some new training methods with regards to combat holds - here, at the Ruddy Duck.”

Athos then tipped his head toward the opposite corner of the pub. “That sent the owner into some sort of religious paroxysm.”

d’Artagnan looked over to where the tubby tavern owner stood, head bent, mouth moving silently but furiously, hands clasped so tightly in prayer that his knuckles shone white even from a distance as they were pressed feverishly to his forehead.

Hmmm. d’Artagnan wondered if the Ruddy Duck owner’s apparent musketeer-induced frenzy was the reason he and the pretty little tavern wench had so much undisturbed time to themselves in the cellar. It was a fortunate reprieve that had allowed him to freely and eagerly pursue his newly-inspired wine appreciation studies.

“Combat holds?” d’Artagnan echoed. “Oh! Then perhaps I should go watch him demonstr-- ?”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Athos drawled, slipping his hat over his eyes against the glare of insidious light in the dark tavern. “There is sure to be a repeat of that particular behavior over time. You may - or may not - find it instructive.”

d’Artagnan looked up, startled as he heard an unusually loud curse, surprised that it was from Aramis. He saw the soldier plunged downward into the crowd, one large dark-fleshed hand visible at the back of his neck. The resulting roar from the gathering both piqued his interest and lit his concern.

“Porthos took him down! Sh- Shouldn’t we... Aren’t we going to help?”

Athos laced his hands over his flat belly and leaned a bit farther back in his seat with a yawn. Just barely heard over the laughter and cheers of the crowd across the room, he sighed with a mix of resignation and contentment, “Ah, who has time?"

**~~~~~FINIS.Vraiment!~~~~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it. All done. Wasn't that a party?  
> Hope y’all had fun. I did. :-) Thank you for reading.  
> Here’s my parting gift/link to all of you who have gone along on this ride with me - No mention of rum, but cats aplenty! Enjoy! And please (says Aramis), “Drink Responsibly”.  
> “Wasn’t That a Party?” By The Irish Rovers. https://(youtu.be/h-KDSxqJ_0o


End file.
